Blind Faith
by Berne
Summary: Draco Malfoy is in his sixth year and things are taking a turn for the worse. Decisions have to be made and his father's release from Azkaban has brought further, more complex problems. Herein lies the dangers of a blind faith.
1. Prologue: Into the Fire

Title: Blind Faith (Pro)  
  
Author name: Berne  
  
Author email: zenithauk@yahoo.co.uk Category: Drama / Action  
  
Sub Category: Angst  
  
Keywords: Draco Lucius Narcissa Malfoy Mansion Zabini fire  
  
Rating: R  
  
Spoilers: All books  
  
Summary: Draco Malfoy is in his sixth year and things are taking a turn for the worse. Decisions have to be made; ones that he had hoped would fade with time. His father's release from Azkaban has brought further, more complex problems. Herein lies: arranged marriages, the ongoing feud with Harry Potter, Quidditch and the dangers of blind faith. Rated R for battle scenes and adult themes.  
  
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
Author's note: Thank you to Ociwen for being the first to read it and for her excellent beta skills (read her H/D The Subtle Knife), Thalia, also for betaing and for her amazing memory of canon, Robin for the read-through, and Veridium Blue, for her helpful suggestions. The engraving on Lucius' stable is from Revelations. Keywords change with every chapter.  
  
This prologue is dedicated to the wonderful Ociwen, who I love dearly.  
  
Blind Faith Prologue Into the Fire  
  
A hollow heart and an empty head Make the streets run red A careless desire Leaves a child a future of fire  
  
Blind Faith, The Levellers  
  
The manor's grounds were beautiful. She could find no other words to describe them - great stretches of lavish lawns, borders trembling with an abundance of sweet-smelling roses. The summerhouse glittered on the edge of her vision, throwing kaleidoscopic patterns over the shadowed trees that lay beyond. The branches appeared to reach out to her as a sigh of wind tugged at the verdant leaves.  
  
She shivered and pulled her silk shawl closer to her, covering the pale skin of her exposed shoulders.  
  
".of course that's not what Trinity said - she said that."  
  
Attempting a look of concern, she gazed at her friend. The dazzling sunlight reflected off the woman's strawberry-blonde hair as though off gilded rose petals. Dark eyes sparkled merrily at her and a carefully manicured hand gestured animatedly, narrowly missing an irritated swipe from the overhanging ivy. The woman vaguely reminded her of someone she had once known.  
  
A low chuckle elicited from behind her. She turned slightly to accept a polite kiss from the towering man who came to stand by her friend. "Be careful Alexia - you'll have someone's eye out."  
  
Alexia ceased her incessant chatter and blinked placidly up at her husband. "I was just telling Narcissa here about the time when Issa-"  
  
Her husband sighed wearily. "Really Alexia," he said. "I think we've all heard enough of your gossip. Is this really all you women talk about?" he asked exasperatedly, turning to Narcissa. "What a tedious life it must be."  
  
Narcissa smiled thinly and covered the frigid hand that had settled on her shoulder with her own.  
  
"I wouldn't call my wife's life tedious as such, Alvin," said Lucius silkily from behind her, squeezing her shoulder. "She has full run of the dungeons when I am absent."  
  
Alvin wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders and Narcissa watched as Alexia leaned naturally into the curve of his body. She felt Lucius drop his hand to his side as Alvin chuckled deeply again. "Oh yes, I can just imagine the horrors that she could inflict on the rats down there." He paused. "Unless there is more to the place than meets the eye?"  
  
It was so tactless an attempt at interrogation that even Narcissa spotted it. And Death Eaters were supposed to be interrogation experts, Narcissa thought scornfully, although she dared not voice her thoughts.  
  
"Zabini," said Lucius, his tone dangerously amused. "Even you know that I do not freely give away information about my manor." Although he was standing behind her, Narcissa could picture her husband's expression: mouth curled into a mirthless grin, eyes narrowed in a way that made most people run, screaming, in the opposite direction. "Anyone could get hold of it."  
  
Alvin cut his eyes away from some point above Narcissa's head and chuckled, somewhat nervously. "Of course, Lucius, of course." He coughed, seemingly fishing for a change in topic. "Draco is doing-"  
  
The abrupt halt in Alvin's speech and the apologetic look shot over Narcissa's head caused her to turn to her husband for the first time in the conversation. Lucius was tall and she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. His steely eyes met hers as he brushed a hand through his fine, silvery hair, shrugging nonchalantly.  
  
"What was Draco doing, Lucius?" Narcissa inquired, letting an edge of coldness creep into her voice.  
  
Her husband looked steadily down at her and shrugged again. "I gave Draco a few incantations to amuse himself with." Narcissa narrowed her eyes and Lucius, as if to reassure her, said, "He won't be able to master them; he had difficulty enough with the Latera Deflagratio."  
  
Alvin looked at Lucius in surprise, the tension between them seeming to dissipate. "Draco can do that? He can perform the Latera Deflagratio?"  
  
Lucius inclined his head slightly, gold rivulets of sunlight glancing off his pale hair. "He can."  
  
Alexia snorted inelegantly. "You expect us to believe that? That a seven- year-old can cause such destruction in a person? Be serious now, Lucius."  
  
"I am being perfectly serious, Alexia." A slow smile crept onto Lucius' face and Narcissa sighed. She knew what was coming next. "You wish a demonstration, perhaps?"  
  
Alvin and Alexia exchanged identical glances. "Come now, Lucius," said Alvin in a tone that bordered on patronising. "I was fifteen before I managed it. It is a complex curse and." He trailed off and stared after Lucius' retreating back as the other man strode along the edge of the clover-sprinkled paddock.  
  
A frown furrowed Alvin's dark brow and he turned once more to Narcissa. "This is true?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," said Narcissa simply.  
  
Alvin took off immediately after Lucius, following the bleached picket- fence perimeter of the field and ducking into the stables. The grazing winged horses snorted and pawed the ground in annoyance of their meal being interrupted.  
  
The winged horses were rare things indeed; Narcissa doubted that the Ministry knew of them. Their flight feathers - which were valuable for both potions and wand cores - had been clipped; she remembered vividly her visit to Mr Borgin's shop in Knockturn Alley to sell them. It had been Draco's first trip there and he had been immeasurably over-excited, despite his father's admonishments. Although her relationship with Draco had always been somewhat distant (he was, without doubt, his father's son), it had made her smile as he explored the bubbling apothecaries, the writhing animal emporiums, the shadowed Dark Arts traders. He had even attracted the unwanted attention of an old hag who had found his eyes fascinating. Narcissa had politely refused to let the gnarled old lady gouge them out - she remembered Draco looking fearfully at the rusty spoon in the hag's shrivelled hand.  
  
Still, Narcissa saw no need to keep such animals on the grounds - their extraordinary intelligence made her nervous. Why not keep them at the less frequently visited manor in France? They were perfectly capable of surviving on their own and each had an absurd loyalty to Lucius, giving them no inclination to make a bid for freedom. A chestnut mare was particularly fond of her husband, she seemed to recall. But Lucius said he had his reasons, and she trusted him.  
  
"Come, Narcissa," said Alexia with a grin. "We must see this."  
  
Narcissa let herself be steered towards the stables. It was a small structure with flint walls; the bright sunlight reflected off the thatched roof like spun gold. Until Lucius had inherited the Malfoy fortune and Mansion at the age of eighteen, it had been the servants' quarters, suitably situated so that it was as far away from the family home as possible. Narcissa respected this decision; she could not imagine letting her own child mix with the flea-ridden servants. Much to her disapproval, Lucius had converted the pleasant cottage into a shelter for his beloved horses. But perhaps 'beloved' was not the right word - Narcissa could not think of any possessions that Lucius held as 'beloved'.  
  
So, under her husband's instruction, the top magical architects in Europe had widened the small front door so that it could accommodate the purebred horses. Naturally, the end product was nothing less than the best. A heavy, mahogany-panelled door had been attached and the stained glass windows smashed out and melted down into the sweeping lettering that adorned the silver plaque that was now welded onto the door:  
  
Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.  
  
Narcissa had never felt inclined to ask Lucius where the quote had come from, or if he had even produced it himself. It certainly suited his disposition. In place of the stained glass windows there were hinged shutters that looked suspiciously like they had been doused in blood. Narcissa wouldn't put it past Lucius - some of the most effective protection spells were blood-related. In fact, all blood-related spells were effective and immensely powerful. She wondered, without much interest, what (or who) had been sacrificed.  
  
"You let Lucius teach these curses to your son?" murmured Alexia, as the pair followed the path their husbands had taken.  
  
Narcissa sighed. "I tried to tell Lucius to wait until the boy's older, but he won't have any of it. You know what he's like."  
  
Alexia glanced sideways at Narcissa. "I've heard."  
  
"He's so stubborn!" Narcissa threw her hands up in exasperation. "I told him to wait until Draco's eleven and he gets his letter from Durmstrang. At least then he could fully control his magical powers. But no; Malfoys have to learn control from an early age, according to Lucius."  
  
Alexia smiled. "It's an important thing to learn. Only the Gods know where we would all be without it." She slowed her steps almost to a stop and Narcissa reduced her speed to fall in step with her friend. "Blaise is going to Hogwarts. He hasn't even got his wand yet."  
  
Narcissa struggled to conjure up a clear picture of the Zabini's son. She seemed to recall a small face dominated by a pair of enormous cobalt eyes and framed by a mass of unruly jet curls. Blaise had his father's hair and his mother's eyes, a most desirable combination.  
  
But the little child - being seven already - did not have a wand of its own? This was something of an abnormality in pureblood wizarding families, and Narcissa made an appropriate exclamation of surprise. "Why ever not?"  
  
"The in-laws."  
  
"I see."  
  
No more needed to be said. The in-laws were a pair of overbearing, meddlesome nuisances who were determined to tell their son and daughter-in- law the correct way to raise their child. Of course, they were Gryffindors. Narcissa thanked the Gods that Lucius' parents had passed away years ago.  
  
"They at it again?" asked Narcissa sympathetically. They had unwittingly come to a halt and stood, facing each other, on the springy grass. At the despairing look on her friend's face, Narcissa gathered her up in a tight embrace.  
  
As Narcissa released her, Alexia seemed to take the gesture as some sort of indication, and her rigid shoulders suddenly slumped, her head rolling forward dispiritedly so that her pointed chin almost brushed her chest. A curtain of strawberry hair fell over her face, hiding the expression that lay beneath. It was alarming what a difference one's posture could make. There was no sign of the usual aristocracy in her stance now, only a certain weariness.  
  
"They're controlling the upbringing of my child," she said angrily. "Blaise is my child, not theirs and I don't see why they should constantly interfere." She looked up at Narcissa suddenly, her blue gaze shaded from the glare of the afternoon sun by sheets of pale hair. "What can I do?"  
  
"Curse them," said Narcissa, calmly placing a hand on Alexia's shoulder. "Curse them until they scream."  
  
Alexia's eyes widened imperceptibly, and then she laughed bitterly. "I would, oh, believe me I would, but they're Alvin's parents."  
  
"That changes nothing, Alexia. I'd do the same thing and I'm sure Lucius would be more than happy to assist."  
  
The other woman smiled half-heartedly and, with an obvious effort, she straightened her shoulders, raised her chin arrogantly and swatted at some invisible dust on her deep violet robes. "Oh I bet he would, Narcissa, I bet he would."  
  
Narcissa clapped her hands together with satisfaction. "That's the spirit. Come on, now." She led Alexia across the remaining distance between themselves and the stables. They both paused outside before entering.  
  
Inside, the stables looked little more than a glamorous hay-shed. The walls were mahogany-panelled, the floor invisible due to the thick carpet of straw. The sun that poured through the single window in the far wall washed over the stables, painting everything in a hazy light. A shelf lined the wall to Narcissa's right; it was stacked with bottles of magical chemicals that she was certain most stables did not have. Besides this hung the tack: reins, saddles, blankets. All black and silver.  
  
Alvin stood in the far corner of the stables, next to a half-empty bucket of feed, a look of complete astonishment on his face. Alexia made as if to close the gap between herself and her husband, but she froze halfway towards him as a high-pitched squealing echoed off the stone walls and high ceiling.  
  
Narcissa clapped her hands over her ears. The sound was like nothing on earth - almost Banshee-like in its intensity. She swung around to the source of the squealing - and saw Draco. His ebony wand was fixated on his victims on the floor - an unfortunate family of honey-furred dormice. Ignoring the writhing animals, Narcissa surveyed her son, hands pressed firmly against her ears.  
  
Draco was sitting beneath the hay-shelf on a bundle of straw that was held firmly together by a scarlet cord. The boy had a look of great concentration on his face, tongue stuck out with effort. His ashen eyes were narrowed to slits, thin lips curled into a triumphant sort of grimace.  
  
He looked so much like his father.  
  
Eventually, the tortured cries were reduced to pathetic whimpers, and Narcissa was able to drop her hands to her sides. Lucius looked on impassively until he caught Alvin's eye and shot him a smug smirk. "You were saying, Alvin?" he drawled.  
  
Alvin Zabini appeared to be shocked into silence, as though he had just witnessed the reincarnation of the Dark Lord himself. She felt pride welling within her, watching her son panting, his thin chest rising and falling swiftly with exertion.  
  
Alexia looked up at Narcissa with wide eyes. "You should be proud of Draco - what an achievement!"  
  
"He has a lot to learn yet," said Lucius, as she knew he would. His appraising gaze settled on his son, who was looking up at him with eyes akin to two grey orbs in a milky sky. Narcissa knew what he was waiting for - Lucius' reaction. Praise, a smile, even a nod to show he had approved of his son's efforts.  
  
But Lucius did nothing; only slid his cool gaze away from the small boy and said, "He has yet to learn basic charms - he seems pre-occupied with my-" he paused meaningfully "-darker tomes. What were you reading the other day, Draco?"  
  
Draco's face lit up at finally having his father's full attention. "Cacophony of Screams, Volume Five," he replied eagerly. "It has everything- "  
  
"That's quite enough, Draco," cut in Lucius over the boy's excited chatter. "Honestly," he continued, turning to walk out of the stables, "the boy devours books almost as fast as he talks." Narcissa made to follow her husband, but halted at the stable doors.  
  
"Are you coming?" she called over her shoulder to her friend.  
  
"In a moment, Narcissa," said Alexia. "We just want to talk to Draco."  
  
Narcissa cast one last dubious glance over her shoulder. Alexia and Alvin were crouched next to Draco, talking in hushed whispers. Her son's face was creased into a fierce frown, eyes smouldering beneath the pale furrowed brow. His hair stood out - an icy beacon in the shadows, ends licking around his collar like tiny flames.  
  
Narcissa spun on her heel and quickened her steps to catch up with Lucius. He turned slightly as she approached him and she was struck by how different her son and husband were.  
  
Lucius was the personification of control. Every move he made was deliberate, every word uttered thought out carefully. Consequences were always weighed and he would do anything to achieve his ends. A true Slytherin.  
  
And then there was Draco. He would strive and strive towards proving himself to his father, again using any means to achieve his ends. But there was a certain desperateness to Draco. Perhaps one who did not know both Malfoys so well would not have noticed it, but Narcissa did and she could not help but compare the two. She noticed every time emotion shone through her son's eyes. Lucius would always try to smother it in any way he could, but it would always be there. It was too strong, this emotion. It was not natural for a Malfoy heir to feel these things.  
  
Narcissa looked up at her husband, debating for a moment whether to say anything. She cleared her throat, blinking in the bright sunlight. "They're talking to Draco again."  
  
Alexia was her friend; there was no doubt about it. Narcissa had few friends (one could never know who to trust), but she could go so far as to say that she loved Alexia more than she loved her own son. They gossiped, they went shopping down Knockturn Alley together, they held joint dinner parties, and they even had a joint wedding. They had fussed over each other as their stomachs grew and their children were born within weeks of each other. She had never had a friend like this at Hogwarts.  
  
But within the last few months suspicion had settled over Narcissa. Their talks had subtly turned into interrogation sessions. Alvin liked to take Draco out of the Manor on excursions more often and their whispered conferences with him did not ease her worries. She did not like to think what these changes in their friendship meant and so she studiously ignored it. Lucius, being ever watchful, had most likely noticed this change long before Narcissa did, and his expression suitably darkened.  
  
"Of course." He narrowed his eyes and called over his shoulder, "Draco won't have enough energy to perform another curse today, Alvin." He turned completely towards the stables, something inscrutable flickering across his expression. Narcissa followed suit. "I doubt he even knows how to do a simple Incendio."  
  
Looking back, Narcissa realised that this was the moment when her son's thirst to prove himself to his father became an apparent problem.  
  
For Draco piped up from the shadows of the stables, "I can do it, Father! I can - look!" Narcissa's stomach seemed to turn over with a sickening slowness, her blood froze in her veins, her breath caught raspingly in her parched throat.  
  
"Incendio!"  
  
That single word rang in the still air, echoing in Narcissa's ears as though it had been screamed.  
  
A moment's silence followed wherein a peculiar buzzing sound reverberated throughout her brain, as though an insect had taken up residence there. Her slight feet felt as though they were filled with lead and her mouth opened in a silent scream - to warn or to scold, she would never be sure because then-  
  
BANG!  
  
The force of the explosion shook the ground like the warning tremors of an earthquake. The heat was immediate and furious in its intensity. Burning planks of wood and ash fell from the blackened sky like mutilated snow. The flock of winged horses were fleeing in fright, tails and manes whipping out behind them like ribbons, whites of their rolling eyes showing. Smoke billowed from the miraculously still-standing stone archway. Flames leapt wildly from the crumbling structure and a terrible scream rent the air. The fire roared with the hunger of flames feasting on dry wood so that the grey churning smoke rose high in the blue summer sky.  
  
Narcissa stood there, oblivious to everything but the furiously burning stable. A sense of utter disbelief and a strange calm had descended upon her. The flames were mesmerising - crimson, gold, copper, lilac and azure all dancing together, devouring the almond wood.  
  
People were running past her, shouldering her out of the way in their desperation to get to the mass of flames and burning wood. The front arch finally collapsed in an explosion of ash. The screaming stopped abruptly, shattering Narcissa's frozen state.  
  
Alexia's in there.  
  
She screamed and started forward, only to find a strong pair of arms fastened around her waist from behind. She scratched, bit, clawed, did everything in her power to make those arms release her. And finally, when she could do no more, her legs gave way and she collapsed against the familiar chest, caught between sobbing uncontrollably and gasping for air. Her hair had escaped from its bun and was plastered to her tear-streaked face. The smoke was filling her lungs and she felt herself being half carried, half dragged backwards.  
  
Away from Alexia.  
  
A fuzzy dizziness had crept into the edges of Narcissa's consciousness and she choked out, "Alexia, Lucius! Alexia's in there!"  
  
The stable was now shrouded in smoke and black-robed men were blasting the veil with multitudes of blanketing spells. Still more wizards were flooding in, adding their shouted incantations to the inferno. The sun was hidden behind a blackened veil, clouds of smoke billowing upwards like lamp-black ink in water.  
  
Narcissa observed all of this from her husband's arms with a dream-like stupor.  
  
Alexia. The thoughts came to her sluggishly, travelling through the fog that had enveloped her brain. Alexia. It was too much. Just too much.  
  
Narcissa fainted.  
  
***  
  
Heather Brown Apparated into the Malfoy grounds. Her boss had received an owl informing him that there was a potential headliner happening at the Malfoy's ancestral home and that, more importantly, the Apparition wards had been disabled. This had never been heard of before and Heather's curiosity had been sufficiently piqued. And so Heather, armed with her beloved camera, and Ergin Howells, quill and Parchpad in hand, had been sent to the scene immediately.  
  
Heather always Apparated with her eyes closed; she found that she could visualise the place she was trying to get to much easier and avoid the unnecessary risk of getting splinched. She most definitely did not fancy leaving an arm or a leg behind in the Daily Prophet editor's office for everyone to poke fun at. Especially not with Ergin in the immediate vicinity.  
  
She felt the familiar shift of air around her as she left the editor's office and landed (hopefully) at the Mansion. She did not open her eyes immediately, just stood, adjusting to the new environment. A tumult of noises assaulted her eardrums - shouted incantations, a deafening, crackling bonfire, and, above all of that, screaming that pierced the air and rose goose pimples all along the length of her arms, prickling the hairs at the back of her neck. And the smell of burning wood thick in the air, so thick, in fact, that it was smothering, suffocating.  
  
Heather opened her eyes, knowing that the scene before her would engrave itself in her memory as though etched there with a knife. She coughed, a hacking, dry cough that scratched her throat and was caused by her sudden intake of breath.  
  
Instantly, her eyes alighted on the flames in front of her. It would have been hard to believe that it was barely mid-afternoon on a warm, sunny day. Oh, the warmth was there, certainly, but it was not the pleasant, summer's day mildness; it was a blazing, scorching heat that dried out her skin, her throat, her lungs, and left her gasping for breath. It seared her skin, and she found herself pulling her sleeves - which had been pushed up over her elbows - down, folding her fingers underneath for protection. Glimpses of a pure, periwinkle sky flickered through the curling black smoke, but the light failed to banish the dark clouds that billowed upwards, chasing each other into the heavens. Flames leaped out of the windows, reaching out, clutching at the singed thatch of the roof, lighting the dry straw with alarming ease.  
  
As she watched, the front archway of the building collapsed with a muffled crash in a sudden cloud of smoke, enveloping the structure for a moment before getting carried on upwards. The screaming stopped abruptly, and there was a terrible silence punctuated only by the shouts of spells and thudding footsteps. Still there were wizards sprinting down to the blaze, vaulting over the charcoal picket fence and circling the stables.  
  
Yes, Heather decided, surprised at her ability to form a semi-coherent thought, as she eyed the few wizards attempting to calm a herd of hysterical horses. These must have been stables.  
  
The abrupt halt in the screaming seemed to motivate Heather and she grimly remembered that she had a job to do. Knowing that Ergin had not even stopped to stare at the scene, she raised the camera, which had been a comforting weight around her neck, and snapped a couple of shots of the event unfolding before her. She then jogged down to the border of the paddock and scrambled through the fence, taking photographs left and right of the swarms of black-robed wizards. Heather frowned. And they were all wizards - there was not a feminine face in sight, apart from a slender figure not far from the safety barrier some sensible person had erected.  
  
The air was thicker here - it was as though glass wool had filled her lungs. Heather pulled the collar of her robes up over her nose and mouth, finding it eased the pressure on her chest. She snapped a picture of the fallen figure, feeling the familiar guilt rising in her chest, and made her way over to see if she could help. Or get information, a small, insensitive part of her mind whispered. She pushed this thought firmly away, along with the guilt.  
  
Approaching the figure, she could see that she was unconscious. Pale blonde hair was plastered to her charcoal-smudged skin and a carefully manicured hand curled into her chest, which was rising and falling in uneven gasps.  
  
Alarmed, Heather slipped her wand out of her pocket and murmured, "Enervate."  
  
Pale eyelashes trembled, opening slowly to reveal a pair of disorientated, deep azure eyes. The woman looked very lost and very young as she struggled to sit up, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth as a strangled noise escaped her throat. Putting a supporting arm behind the woman's back, Heather helped her to sit up. Beneath the streaks of dirt and grime, Heather could see an elegance to the figure, an effortless grace that refused to be smothered by the effects of the fire. There was a familiarity there as well that picked at the young photographer's mind, refusing to go away. Like she'd seen her before somewhere.  
  
"Where's my husband?" the woman demanded suddenly, very clearly. A flicker of panic chased its way across her face and she clutched onto Heather's hand. "Where's Lucius?"  
  
Heather's mouth dropped open. "Narcissa Malfoy?"  
  
But Mrs Malfoy seemed to be pre-occupied with the fire. The blood drained from her face, making the dark streaks stand out in stark contrast. "Fire," she whispered, hoarsely. "T-The fire." Her eyes widened. "Alexia!"  
  
Mrs Malfoy struggled to stand up, her legs protesting against their owner's desperate attempts. Camera forgotten, Heather gently pushed down on the older woman's shoulders, entirely unsure over what course of action take. She settled on mumbling comforting words, finding herself telling the distraught woman that she would find out what was happening and that everything would be fine. She honestly hoped that it wasn't a lie and that everything would be fine.  
  
But, looking up at the plume of smoke that showed no sign of abating, she felt a peculiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.  
  
She turned to Mrs Malfoy. "I'll only be gone a minute. If you stay where you are I'll be able to bring back news of your Alexia." Mrs Malfoy nodded distractedly, eyes fixed on the flames dancing over the heads of the crowd.  
  
Sincerely hoping that the woman would heed her words, Heather stood up and took her bearings. In front of her was a dense, swarming sea of black cloaks. Flashes of neon could be picked out, telling the rank and department of the fire-fighting wizard. West Sussex. North Yorkshire. London. Wessex. They appeared to be from all over England, so there was no clue as to where the Manor was situated. That one mystery had kept the magical community baffled for centuries. Heather doubted that even the Manor's occupants knew exactly where they lived. From her extensive research into the Malfoy family, she had learned that when travelling from Malfoy Manor one either Apparates, Floos or Portkeys directly from the Master's study. The impressive front gates had little use but for ornamentation, as did the front driveway.  
  
Heather threaded her way through the crowd and stopped as she felt a mild shock run its way up her outstretched wand-hand. Retracting her arm, she squinted into the fire's glare and noticed a translucent, mirage-like shimmer barring her from getting any closer to the flames. Close up, she could see the building was burning as furiously as ever, but the heat seemed to have completely vanished. Not having noticed it before in her distracted state, Heather savoured the cool that radiated from the barrier.  
  
The smoke was dissipating, too. Although there was a huge tower of it stretching up into the sky, Heather could see that it was no longer spreading, constricted to staying behind the barrier. There was a hushed silence from the crowd and the tides of spells being shot at the building notably subsided. A palpable tension seemed to coil itself around those assembled.  
  
Heather turned to the wizard next to her. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with muscles that rivalled any sportsman she had encountered. The top of her head just brushed his solid upper arm.  
  
She prodded his arm with her wand. "Excuse me," she said, her voice sounding small, even to her own ears. She cleared her throat and attempted to project her voice a little. "Excuse me."  
  
The man turned his shaved head in her direction and peered down at her. "Sorry. Didn't see you down there."  
  
Heather craned her neck back. "What's happening?"  
  
The man turned back to the fire, a worried frown creasing his weathered features. "Our boss has gone in there," he said gruffly. "The back of the building is more stable, so he's gone that way." He mumbled something else that Heather didn't quite catch.  
  
"Has anyone been found?" she asked, hoping that she didn't sound like she was prying. Even though she was.  
  
"One body. A Mr Zabini."  
  
For the second time that day, Heather felt her jaw swinging open as though it was on a hinge. "Alvin Zabini?"  
  
The man grunted. "You knew him?" he asked, after shooting a blanketing spell at the fire.  
  
Everyone knew the Zabinis. They were close to the Malfoys, and Heather, with her extensive knowledge on the subject, knew that the Malfoys and the Zabinis were as close as two pureblooded families got. Dangerously close. She knew that Lucius Malfoy had changed the Zabini family. They used to be a respectable, Gryffindor family, but when Mr Zabini had been Sorted into Slytherin there had been quite the uproar, according to Heather's editor. The family had demanded a re-Sorting, something that was rarely heard of, but Albus Dumbledore quite rightly refused - the Sorting Hat was never wrong. Quite the good little Slytherin he had turned out to be - after You- Know-Who's reign of terror he and Mr Malfoy had been under the serious allegation of supporting the Death Eater movement. But both men's trials came and went, both verdicts the same - not guilty. Some suspected blackmail, others wanted a re-trial with Veritaserum, but one thing was for sure - both families were Dark. There was just no substantial evidence to support it.  
  
Instead of relaying this information she simply said, "I've done a report on him."  
  
The man's eyes narrowed, but he still did not turn to face her. When he spoke, Heather heard with some surprise that his voice was tight with anger. "Ah. You're a reporter. Well I suggest that you take yourself out of the vicinity, Miss. We have lives to save here."  
  
Before Heather could find something to reply with, a cheer rumbled throughout the assembled fire fighters, punctuated with scattered clapping. Heather stared at the burning building and saw what was causing the commotion - a fire fighter, skin black with soot, was staggering towards the crowd, directly in front of her. In his arms he was cradling a bundle of material - no - a child. As he came closer the smoke cleared and she could just make out a figure swathed in dark robes.  
  
When the fire fighter was no more than a metre away from Heather he shifted the weight of the child to one arm and reached out the freed hand towards her. For a moment she thought he was going to grab on to her for support, but as soon as his charred fingers made contact with the pearlescent barrier, it wavered, before letting him stumble through.  
  
Heather stared. The man fell heavily to his knees, coughing hackingly, waving away the medi-wizard that had descended upon him.  
  
"No!" he choked out. "Help the boy."  
  
"But sir-"  
  
"Help the boy."  
  
Sensibly, the wizard decided against arguing with the fire fighter and instead joined his work mates in attending to the child. Her eyes were fixated on the trembling figure of the rescuer, unable to scrape up the courage to look at the smouldering boy. The running commentary was almost too much to bear.  
  
".superficial burns to the face and neck." The voice raised several notches in volume. "He's not breathing."  
  
Heather spun around on her heel, unable to stand it anymore. The three dark- robed men were crouched around the fallen boy, and Heather found her heart in her throat. The boy's hair was black; Heather felt a wave of guilty relief wash over her. Seeing the pathetic form of Mrs Malfoy had struck a chord deep within her and she did not want the woman to suffer another blow this afternoon.  
  
This must be the Zabini's son. Blaise?  
  
His face was red and peeling, as though struck with a severe case of sunburn. There was soot brushed around his nose and mouth, and one cheek appeared to be charred. Heather winced. Even in blessed unconsciousness - or death - the tiny child's face was screwed up, as though in intense pain.  
  
Blaise's face was blocked from view as a kneeling wizard leant over and carefully prised his jaw open, ducking his head slightly. "Airways are clear. Begin resuscitation."  
  
Another medi-wizard whipped out his wand and laid it against Blaise's blackened chest. "Initium Corum."  
  
Nothing happened. Two of the men exchanged glances.  
  
"Initium Corum Totalus!"  
  
Heather's breath hitched in her throat as the boy's thin chest jerked and his eyes flew open, revealing bloodshot grey-  
  
And he screamed.  
  
Tortured screams that were a thousand times worse than the deadly silence. The three wizards flinched back, eyes wide with horror as the figure twisted and squirmed, each movement seeming to increase his pain tenfold.  
  
"Hold him still!"  
  
One man attempted to grab the flailing arms, but it dragged such agonised wails from the child that he immediately let go.  
  
"What's your name, son?"  
  
Incoherent words tumbled over each other, fighting with the sobs that wracked the small body. His face was once again screwed up and tears were flooding down his face, steaming as they touched the red-hot skin. Heather, the picture of the tortured steel eyes branded into her brain, croaked, "Draco Malfoy."  
  
Attempts to relieve the boy of his pain magically increased, whether out of fear of Lucius Malfoy or out of genuine concern, Heather was not sure. Painkillers were shot at Draco, and, in a final desperate attempt, one man shouted, "Torpidus!"  
  
The screaming stopped. The boy whimpered.  
  
"Can't you Stupefy him?" asked Heather, somewhat desperately, knowing perfectly well that her medical knowledge was horrendous.  
  
One of the men - 'Alan' as his name-badge proclaimed him - turned and looked at her with faint surprise, as if he hadn't realised he had an audience. He shook his sandy head. "He's in shock - it's too dangerous. He might not wake up from it."  
  
Draco whimpered again. Heather looked down at him as his wide, terrified cobalt eyes locked with hers. She crouched down in a space between two of the wizards and took the boy's charred hand in her own, pushing down the nausea at its rough, cracked texture. She found that words came unbidden to her mind.  
  
"Hush, don't worry.everything will be fine."  
  
Something shot between the two - not a visible something - but a feeling. Like a charge. A connection that released the tension in the boy and relaxed his features, reducing the sobs and unclenching his fists.  
  
Alan, who had spoken to her before, murmured, "Don't apply pressure to the wounds on his hands."  
  
Heather dropped the hand immediately. The moment was broken; the connection gone. She looked away, the weight of the camera around her neck now seeming like an injustice, a burden.  
  
"Will he be alright?" she muttered, avoiding the leaden eyes that followed her movements as she straightened up. She felt suddenly, inexplicably awkward, as though she didn't belong here. As though it wasn't her place to comfort this boy, to hold his hand.  
  
This time another wizard spoke, upturned face revealing coffee-coloured skin and dark eyes. "Depends. We can't keep the numbing spell on him forever - it could cause more harm than good. If the Portkey to the Burns Unit at St Mungo's is here quick enough we should be able to incubate him and see the extent of his burns. They have stronger analgesics than we can provide right now."  
  
"Is he in pain?"  
  
"Not at the moment. The spell's frozen his nerve-endings, but it's not healthy to keep it on for too long." He stood up and steered Heather by the elbow, away from Draco, further into the milling crowd.  
  
A hand came to rest on her shoulder and she frowned, staring into the man's chocolate eyes. "We can't remove the burnt clothing, ma'am. I don't like to be the bearer of bad news, but.he's in worse shape than he looks."  
  
"Worse than he looks?" Heather's voice came out on a half-gasp. "How can he be any worse than he looks right now?"  
  
The medi-wizard squeezed her shoulder sympathetically. "I'm sorry. His breathing is erratic and the soot around his mouth tells us that there is a strong possibility that he is suffering damage from smoke inhalation. His clothes are stuck to him, which also tells us." He swallowed, most probably at the slack-jawed expression Heather could feel was plastered on her face, and cast his eyes away. "It tells us that the majority of his abdomen is covered in third-degree burns." His eyes settled seriously on her again. "The nurses at St Mungo's will be able to fill you in with more detailed information, but." He trailed off, as though something had struck him, and squinted at her, dark brow furrowed. "You are Mrs Malfoy, aren't you?"  
  
In any other circumstance Heather would have been flattered - Narcissa Malfoy was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. But now, with the wizard in front of her relaying stomach-turning information to her as though she were the boy's mother, she merely felt ill.  
  
Heather turned on her heel and ran, ignoring the voice calling after her, ignoring the wizards that were forced to leap out of her way, ignoring the pictures that flickered through her mind like a fluttering photograph album.  
  
Except she couldn't ignore them.  
  
The fire, looming up. The look of terror on Narcissa Malfoy's face. The identical look on her son's face. The spark that she had felt shoot between them. The sympathy in the medi-wizard's eyes that wasn't meant for her.  
  
Spotting the woman it was meant for, Heather skidded to her side, falling to her knees, not much caring about the grass stains that streaked her robes. The pale face of Mrs Malfoy turned to her and a dazzling smile that Heather had seen many a time adorning the Prophet's pages lit up her features.  
  
"You found her? You found Alexia?"  
  
Heather cursed inwardly. She had completely forgotten about Narcissa Malfoy's friend. So, with the feeling of intense.wrongness almost overwhelming her, Heather said, "She's been taken to St Mungo's."  
  
Which part of St Mungo's? whispered that truthfully cruel part of her conscience as Mrs Malfoy's smile brightened further. The wards or the morgue?  
  
"And your son," she added, realising that perhaps Mrs Malfoy had not realised that her boy had been caught in the fire. "He got some serious burns but he's going to be fine." I hope. "He's should be at St Mungo's, too."  
  
The older woman's eyes narrowed and her rapid change in expression darkened her delicate features, hardening them. "Him," she spat, eyes returning to the smoke enclosed behind the re-erected magical barrier. "I don't care about him. He could have burned to death, for all I care. He started all of this."  
  
Shock froze Heather in her crouched position, muscles stiffened. The hand that had been ready to comfort the woman shook. "What do you mean, you don't care?" Her voice broke halfway through. "You're his mother!"  
  
A gaze like knives was directed at her, and she almost flinched away. "He's the one who started the fire. He's the one who almost killed my best friend and her husband. I am not his mother."  
  
Heather stared.  
  
"Now, now, Narcissa," said a silky voice from far above Heather's head, "perhaps you should not be quite so harsh."  
  
Stunned by Lady Malfoy's hateful comments, Heather stumbled to her feet, feeling as though her muscles had all seized up. She twisted around to find herself staring at someone's thick, expensive robes. Following the torso up, her eyes took in the cold eyes, mouth curled in distaste, the pale skin of an unmistakable person.  
  
Lucius Malfoy.  
  
Frightened out of her stupor, Heather stumbled backwards, hardly noticing the pained yelp from Narcissa Malfoy.  
  
And she had every reason to be frightened. The stories she had heard about him chilled her to the bone. He had an aura about him that emanated dark waves of power. Power over things that should not be tampered with. Power over life. Power over death. A power that attracted people to him like moths to a flame. A power that got half of these people killed or thrown in Azkaban. A power that eluded Ministry officials time and time again. A power that in turn terrified her witless and fascinated her.  
  
Right now it terrified her witless.  
  
"You have spoken to my wife, Miss Brown?" His voice was deceivingly soft, eyes searching her face.  
  
"How do you know my name?" she asked, thankful that her voice had not completely escaped her.  
  
He shrugged, shoulders rising gracefully beneath the heavy, dark robes. "That is not important. What is important is that you tell me what my wife told you."  
  
Seemingly having lost the ability to lie under his hard gaze, she repeated what Mrs Malfoy had said, unable to summon up the anger she had felt only moments ago. When she had finished she looked up at the tall man with a great sense of foreboding.  
  
Lucius removed his wand from his pocket and tapped it thoughtfully against his chin. Noticing her wary gaze, his thin lips curled into a smile that did not reach his wintry eyes. "What shall we do with you, Miss Brown?"  
  
"I could leave," she squeaked, already knowing what the answer would be.  
  
"And have the information you managed to pry out of my wife plastered all over tomorrow's Daily Prophet?" He snorted derisively. "I think not." He clamped a frozen hand around Heather's upper arm, almost strong enough to bruise, and escorted her out of the crowd.  
  
The forceful hand was unnecessary - Heather could not have run away if she tried. The crowd parted for Lucius Malfoy automatically. People showed no sign that they had noticed him, but still they seemed to make a pathway for the man, and, from the unmoved expression on Mr Malfoy's face, he was used to it. As though it was expected.  
  
He was taking her away from the crowd, she noticed with a stab of cold panic. "Where are we going? Ergin will notice if I'm gone. There'll be people searching. He'll-"  
  
"Be quiet," Mr Malfoy snapped. Malicious eyes turned on her, making her feel as though she had been doused in icy water. "Why would I waste my energy killing you? Why would I destroy my hard-earned reputation on such a tedious little girl?"  
  
A peculiar pang shot through her chest at this and she jerked her shoulder out of his grip. "Well if I'm such a tedious little girl," she hissed, incensed, "how come your family's reputation lies on my shoulders? How come- "  
  
An exasperated sigh cut through Heather's speech and she pulled herself short, fuming at the man standing in front of her, terror replaced by a smouldering anger. He looked unforgivably amused as he glanced around the deserted gravel path they were standing on.  
  
There was a strange light in his eyes when he stared down at her. It was a light that made the hairs on her arms stand up, prickling. "You cannot expect to beat me in a war of words, Miss Brown. You cannot expect to beat me in anything." He raised his wand and once again a cold, stark terror raced through her veins, screaming at her to run.  
  
But she couldn't.  
  
She watched in muted horror as Lucius Malfoy raised his wand and touched it to her forehead. The last words she heard before sinking into blackness echoed through her mind, tugging at her consciousness for years to come, but never quite surfacing.  
  
"I always win, Miss Brown, you'd do well to remember that." A smirk. "Alas, that is no longer going to be possible. Goodbye, Miss Brown."  
  
"Obliviate."  
  
***  
  
The Daily Prophet - 18th August, 1987  
  
Inferno at Malfoy Mansion  
  
There have been reports of a fire in the grounds of Malfoy Mansion. Two lives were taken in the blaze - Alvin and Alexia Zabini, famous for their generous donations to orphanages around England. Another was seriously burned - the Malfoys' seven-year-old heir, Draco, whose burns covered three quarters of his body, both third- and first-degree.  
  
The cause of the fire has been identified as accidental. No details have been released to the press, although there is a rumour of flammable chemicals being involved.  
  
The fire fighters were called in yesterday, mid-afternoon and were still putting out the fire at dusk. Narcissa Malfoy has been kept over night at St Mungo's due to shock.  
  
The fire has left a young boy orphaned, another boy seriously scarred and the nation shocked. There will be full coverage in the evening edition of The Daily Prophet.  
  
Article - Ergin Howells Photograph - Heather Brown  
  
***  
  
Narcissa stared at the Daily Prophet, not really seeing the article at all.  
  
Yes, she thought, staring past the flickering photograph. Yes. This is what such devotion to a person allows. This is - what is it? A dangerous, fiery loyalty that meddles with coherent thoughts and makes people take action without considering the consequences. She narrowed her eyes. Other people have to suffer the consequences.  
  
Narcissa Malfoy folded the Prophet carefully, setting it down on her crisp, sterile bed sheets.  
  
It is madness.  
  
It is blind faith.  
  
www.livejournal.com/users/berne 


	2. Chapter 1: Treading the Royal Road

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Title: Blind Faith (01)

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Author name: Berne  
**Author email:** zenithauk@yahoo.co.uk

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Category: Drama   
**Sub Category:** Angst  
**Keywords:** Draco Harry Malfoys fire blind faith Quidditch  
**Rating:** R   
**Spoilers: **All books  
**Summary: **Draco Malfoy is in his sixth year and things are taking a turn for the worse. His father's release from Azkaban has brought further, more complex problems and decisions have to be made; ones that he had hoped would fade with time. Herein lies: arranged marriages, the ongoing feud with Harry Potter and the dangers of blind faith. Rated R for battle scenes and adult themes.

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Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
**Author's note: **R rating for future blood, gore, battle scenes, etc. Keywords change with every chapter. Thank you to Ociwen (read her H/D The Subtle Knife) and Thalia for their wonderful betaing skills. I treasure you both so, so much. Credits go to the wonderful Fawlty Towers and National Lampoon's Bored of the Rings. 

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Blind Faith

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Chapter 1

Treading the Royal Road

To dance with a man is to concentrate a twelvemonth's regulation fire upon him in the fragment of an hour. To pass to courtship without acquaintance, to pass to marriage without courtship, is a skipping of terms reserved for those alone who tread this royal road.   
--Thomas Hardy 

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Draco would not have been the first person to call his mother a trophy wife. She was a deceptively pretty, stick-thin blonde whose one purpose seemed to be to hang off her husband's arm at social occasions, in turn dazzling people with her brilliant smile and her supreme arrogance. He himself had thought she had little use other than to produce an heir to the Malfoy family fortune. She couldn't cook, embroider, play Quidditch or do anything remotely intelligent. 

But the logic behind his opinion of her had taken a slight denting recently. He had never considered that it wasn't that she _couldn't _do these things, but more that she _wouldn't_. 

So when Narcissa single-handedly broke his father out of Azkaban he had been more than a little surprised. 

First there were the interviews - overly exaggerated Daily Prophet articles that described the grieving of a widow who knew her _innocent _husband was as good as dead. Pictures of a broken Narcissa clinging to her scowling son. 

Then there were the donations. Twenty thousand Galleons to St Mungo's. Ten thousand Galleons to the Ministry's Auror department. Fifteen thousand towards repairing the damage to the Department of Mysteries caused by those _dreadful _Death Eaters. The magical government needed all the money it could get muster for the upcoming war. The Minister of Magic himself received each generous donation. There was one particular photograph, Draco remembered, of Fudge comforting his distraught mother, but seemingly a little distracted by her heaving chest. 

Fudge was a disgustingly oblivious fool and, despite Dumbledore's new-founded influence, he was easily corrupted by a pretty face. He issued a retrial for Lucius Malfoy. 

The blackmail was probably the biggest contributor. Narcissa used Lucius' own methods of threatening, cajoling, cursing, bribing, using everything in her power to sway the jury's verdict. 

And, to Draco's everlasting amazement, it worked. Not guilty due to susceptibility to the Imperius curse. They had found traces of the Unforgivable on his father (he wondered how she managed to persuade the guard to do _that _one) and, although it was a very close call, the majority of the jury voted not guilty. 

Front pages full of the Malfoy family's reunion. Narcissa and Lucius looking superior while Draco stood to the side, blinking. 

Dumbledore sent out an appeal for another retrial, which was promptly ignored. Although the wizard had gained a more positive public opinion, Fudge was still determined not to let the Headmaster undermine his so-called authority. And the Ministry had far more important things to worry about now that Voldemort's presence had been made clear to the public. 

Besides, an article was quoted saying, what damage could one extra Death Eater do, anyway? 

***

Lucius Malfoy gazed at the man in front of him irritably. Since his inevitable return from Azkaban, various Death Eaters had inundated him with summons, meetings, requests, anything that they could not cope with by themselves. 

This meeting, though, was of a slightly different nature. The other man was short and stocky with a balding head that reflected the sunlight that poured in through the window. And he was currently wearing thin the Persian rug that Lucius was rather fond of. 

"Do stop pacing, Richard. I did not invite you here to wear holes in my rug." 

The man stopped in his tracks and spun around on his booted heel, shooting a glare across the room. "No - you brought me here to rip out my daughter's heart in the cruellest way possible."

Lucius smirked. "Now, now Richard. If I had wanted to rip out her heart I would have found a far more painful way to do it. As it is, she is merely an obstacle."

The summer sun ducked beneath a cloud and the room darkened, as did Richard Parkinson's expression. The wind picked up again and whipped past the window, rattling the glass. It sounded like restless bones. 

"My daughter is not _merely an obstacle_," he spat. "She is a teenage girl who has - amazingly - fallen in love with your son."

"Love," he murmured, and picked up a silver letter opener from his desk, idly running the pad of his thumb up the freshly sharpened edge. "Then she can fall out of love with him. She is sixteen - a broken heart will not kill her. Perhaps it will do her some good."

"_Good?_" hissed Parkinson. His chest had puffed out, making him look even more inflated than usual. "What good can it do?"

Lucius frowned, watching Parkinson's distorted reflection in the smooth plane of the blade. "Your daughter has always been far too sensitive for her own good. You and your wife have fawned over her all her life, spoiling her, fondling her…"

Parkinson let his breath whistle through his teeth, an action that made Lucius' dislike for the man rise several notches. "I can't believe you, Lucius." He gave a short, humourless laugh. "You're saying our child is spoiled? What about Draco? You get him everything he asks for. Brooms, tutoring, books… You can't stand there and tell me that your boy is not spoiled."

"He is not spoiled. Not where it matters."

Richard snorted disbelievingly. "So you accuse me of being a parent…"

"I am not accusing you of anything," Lucius said impatiently. 

He had felt irritable before Richard Parkinson had come storming into his study, and his visit was doing nothing to improve his mood. He twirled the letter opener around his fingers, smirking as Parkinson's eyes finally fell on it. Lucius was getting tired of this sentimental drivel. 

"However," he continued, enjoying the sudden discomfiture Parkinson seemed to be in, "I did not sever the engagement between your daughter and my son to break her heart, despite what you may believe. My wife and I simply found a more suitable candidate for Draco."

Parkinson's mud-coloured eyes bulged. "She has been replaced," he choked. "Already?"

Lucius smiled in mock-sympathy. He knew how much the family needed this marriage. Knew how much they had relied on it since the well-timed birth of their daughter. 

"She has," he confirmed, suddenly enjoying this very much. "The Delacours are very pleased with my decision."

The spluttering stopped. "Delacours…" Dark eyes narrowed. "The Delacours of Normandy?"

"The very same."

Lucius remembered the Delacours clearly. They were certainly not the forgettable family the Parkinsons were. They were held high in Northern France's social hierarchy, which heightened their suitability as candidates immensely. Their daughter was a pretty thing, her wizarding blood only marred by one thing - Veela ancestry. But Lucius did not consider this unfortunate. In fact, it was one of the many advantages of selecting the girl. 

First, and most importantly, was the renewed alliance of the Malfoy family and the Veelas. This could prove useful in the days that were swiftly approaching. Such powerful creatures were always to the Dark Lord's liking.

Secondly, the Malfoys would be in favour in France. Their name would spread into Europe, an important leap that could open new connections for the family. And, if things did not bode well for the Dark Side, Lucius would need a place to escape the British Ministry. It was always wise, he found, to keep all paths open.

Thirdly, Lucius thought about the children. He could not begin to imagine what the offspring of a Parkinson would look like. He had met this Pansy girl once, before her enrolment at Hogwarts, but could not seem to conjure up an image of her. He had suffered much of Draco's vexations about her and presumed that Draco would not have been complaining nearly so much if the girl had been beautiful. 

Fourthly, the Malfoy's would have nothing less than the best. The Parkinsons were most certainly not the best. Malfoys were platinum; Delacours gold; Parkinsons a cheap-plated metal that looked expensive but rusted with time. 

Lastly, but certainly not least, the Malfoy image needed a slight boost. His trip to Azkaban, aside from being exceedingly inconvenient, had made a negative impact on the family as a whole. He publicly announced his withdrawal from the Ministry due to his "fury" and "absolute disgust" at being convicted in the first place when they _knew _he had been particularly vulnerable to a certain Unforgivable since the first war. Fools. 

Parkinson interrupted his musings with his nerve-grating whine. "But Lucius…" He swallowed, throat jumping. "Why?"

Lucius sighed. "Fame, wealth, reputation, Richard. What else?" He jabbed the letter opener towards the startled man. "None of which _you_ have."

Parkinson gulped again, his thick neck spasming grotesquely. His posture was fluctuating between defiant and pathetic. 

"Lucius," Parkinson said weakly. He seemed to have quickly swallowed what little pride he had been clinging on to. "Lucius, we _need _this marriage. We…" He twisted his hands together, a nervous gesture that Lucius despised. Outward signs of discomfort were always despicable, in his eyes. "We…" Apparently unable to find anything remotely worthwhile to say, Parkinson stood in front of Lucius with pleading eyes, looking every bit out of place in the richly furnished room. 

The study was one of the only rooms in the Manor Lucius liked. He could remember how his own father used to sit behind an enormous pine desk, overly decorated with its swirling, curling carvings. 

Lucius had always thought it a gaudy, meretricious thing. 

So the moment his father had died he had re-decorated the study in mahogany, ebony and imported redwood. The most expensive money could buy. 

The blood reds, burnt bronzes and ink-blacks had darkened the room considerably. The desk was still enormous, but was instead carved out of an exquisite mahogany wood that assimilated the high-backed gilded chair that gleamed dully in the grey light that flickered through the window. The carpet was a ruddy colour that hid certain spills rather well. 

But there was one thing that Lucius treasured above all others. Above the Dark Arts books lining the walls, above the breathtaking views over the rolling grounds of the Manor, even above the Persian rug that Richard Parkinson was fidgeting on. 

The fireplace.

Scooped out of onyx, Lucius had had it set in the wall between the two windows. It seemed to absorb the little light that reached it, on first glance, creating a gaping black hole in the panelled wall. But on second glance, one could detect a carving etched into the arch, twisting around the left-hand corner and sweeping over the top of the crescent. The figure was charmed to change, depending on who entered the room. 

When Lucius was alone it was always a falcon. A beautifully fierce, spread-winged falcon, its deadly talons flexing, its glittering, jewel-like eyes watching. Always watching. For Narcissa, a Mediterranean mermaid replaced the impressive bird. Its scaled tail rippled and in its hand there was always a mirror. The mermaid never showed her face, only held the looking glass, never seeing past it. Perhaps predictably, the carving melted into a dragon whenever Lucius summoned Draco into his study. Like Lucius' falcon, it was ever watchful. Intermittently, it released a ball of black flame that ricocheted off the arcs of the mantelpiece until it faded into nothing. 

Currently, the carving was a sea serpent. It had a wide-eyed horse-like head and a long, sinuous, snake-like body that rose and fell in humps below the mantel line. Alarming in appearance, but perfectly harmless. 

__

How appropriate. 

Lucius flicked his eyes from the back to the man in front of him. "Go away, Richard," he said, waving the twinkling letter-opener in a dismissive gesture. A click of his fingers lowered the room's complex wards. "You are serving no purpose by shuffling around on my rug."

Parkinson made a visible effort to keep still. Lucius always found that people tended to do what one said when one was holding a sharp implement. 

"I have nothing more to say on the matter, Richard," Lucius said, when Parkinson showed no sign of Disapparating. 

Parkinson sighed and ran a grubby hand over his eyes. "You are sure there is nothing I can do to persuade you? Money?"

"You have no money," said Lucius, growing increasingly tired of the man. 

"We have a lovely chateau in Rouen."

Lucius took a moment to ponder, not for the first time, what had ever made him even consider letting the Parkinsons marry into the Malfoy family. "An industrialised Muggle town? Why ever would I want to go there? The very thought."

"A Thestral?" 

Lucius made an impatient gesture towards the window. "I already have one, as you very well know. There is not one thing you could offer me that I could possibly want." He smirked. "Except possibly the Potter boy brought to me hung, drawn and quartered, but even then I would never dream of asking such a thing of you." He stabbed the letter-opener into the desktop beside him with perhaps more force than was absolutely necessary. "Can't let you have all the fun, now can we?" 

Lucius wrenched the knife out of the hardwood desk and took a step towards Parkinson. He noted, with no small amount of satisfaction, that the man was watching the path of the letter-opener with wide, alarmed eyes. 

"If there is nothing I can do, then I shall have to leave and break the news to my daughter." Parkinson dragged his eyes up to meet Lucius'. "I can't begin to tell you how much I despise you, Lucius Malfoy." 

Lucius smiled lazily. "No, I doubt there would be a piece of parchment long enough." He waved a pale hand. "Trot along, then. I do not wish to waste all of my afternoon on you and your grievances."

But Richard Parkinson had Disapparated before Lucius had even finished his sentence. He restored the room's numerous wards with a lethargic wave of his hand. 

Some people were so _sensitive_. 

***

Draco Malfoy was flying. 

The manor grounds were laid out before him. If he had been another person he would have marvelled at its grandness. Gravelled paths threaded through the florid flowerbeds like ivory rivers. The forest was an inky smudge on the horizon, like that of a mistake. The summerhouse sparked ahead of him; a sudden blaze of sunlight flared off the sheets of glass. The manor stood behind him, a cluster of mismatched turrets and towers, balconies and battlements, windows glittering like malicious eyes. 

But Draco was not someone else and his concentration was focussed on one thing.

The Snitch.

But it seemed it did not want to be found. Draco glanced down at his coach, Ryan McDonald, who was gesturing wildly, twenty feet below him, arms windmilling, most probably trying to communicate some obscure manoeuvre to his pupil. 

Draco sneered and looked away. If the idiot didn't realise that there was no chance of being heard over the roaring winds then he obviously wasn't worth listening to. A particularly vicious blast of biting air whipped past him and his broom banked violently sideways; he had to throw his whole weight to the right to get it back on course. 

Squinting, Draco peered out desperately over the grounds. The sun ducked behind a cloud and shadows raced across the overcast lawns. Not one glint of gold anywhere. 

Draco was frozen. He could see that his fingers clutching the broom were red and raw. He wrestled with his broom as another gust almost sent him backwards, almost into one of the manor's windows.

When he had finally gained control over his Firebolt, Draco shot down towards the ground and landed, hard, on the tarmac of the Quidditch pitch. The landing sent jolts of pain up his frozen legs and he was mildly surprised that they didn't shatter on impact. 

He shook his windswept hair out of his eyes and glared at the figure jogging towards him. The sun appeared from behind a veil of lead and the wind dropped suddenly, so that he could clearly hear the man's shouts as he approached. 

"…_bloody useless! You expect to win a match playing like that?_"

He came to a stop in front of Draco and continued with his ranting. He was a middle-aged, treacle-haired man of average height and a virulent disposition. Draco's father had hired him to improve his son's "horrendous skills" and "even worse attitude". 

"…_you wouldn't be able to spot a Snitch if it was underneath your nose!_" The broom in his hand thumped against the hard ground, emphasising each word. Draco looked on sullenly. "_Call yourself a Seeker, do you?_"

"No," Draco said dully. "I call myself a Chaser, but you and my father seem to have this infatuation with making me Seek." _Bloody Harry Potter. Everything _always _revolves around him. _

McDonald's small eyes narrowed and he took a step forward that Draco supposed was meant to be threatening. The wind had abated, but it was still frigid and painful against his cheeks. The coach's dark hair whipped across his face and he raised a gloved hand to push it back impatiently. 

"You will be a Seeker, _Mr Malfoy_," he growled, "whether you like it or not. Your father has deemed me satisfactory to coach you for the past five years and I have no inclination to quit." He leaned closer still, but Draco stood his ground and glared silently at the older man. "_You_ are the problem, Mr Malfoy, not your father or myself. You have an attitude problem the size of Gringotts and would do well to remember who your peers are." He stepped back, and tipped his head to one side, seemingly in thought. 

Finally, after a few moments' silence, he announced, "I will go to your father."

Draco felt a sudden tightening in his throat and his dislike of the coach increased considerably. He curved his lips into a cool smile, ignoring the mild panic he could feel building up in his chest. "Ah, yes. The much-acclaimed gesture of passing the buck." His lip curled. "How impressive." 

"What is more impressive," the coach said, coldly, "is your attitude. It is a wonder that anyone would want you on their team, let alone allow you to play one of the most coveted positions."

Draco was unmoved. The not-so-thinly-veiled insult was nothing new; McDonald had been throwing similar comments around for years. "My father-" he started, a phrase that sent most sane people into stumbling apologies. 

"Your father," interrupted McDonald, "instructed me to use any means necessary to get you to beat Harry Potter." He prodded Draco in the shoulder with the end of his broomstick. Draco glared back icily. "Now get your arse back up there before I do something you'll regret." He flashed a smile. _Smarmy bastard. _"And your father will be hearing about this, regardless."

"No," said Draco, stubbornly. "I am not going up again today; I'll get bloody blown to pieces. I've had two hours' training already." He watched with amusement as the older man's face turned puce, a vein in his neck started to throb-

__

Thwack!

The blow came out of nowhere and Draco stumbled backwards, clapping a hand to his cheek. A sharp pain shot through his face, only to be immediately replaced by a stinging, red-hot throbbing sensation. He could feel the rising welts under his fingers where the broomstick twigs had clawed his face, like talon marks. But more than that, the shock of the blow coming out of nowhere stunned Draco into silence as he took his hand away from his face, wiping the dashing of scarlet blood on his dark robes. 

Draco raised his head slowly, shaking the fine silvery hair out of his eyes. Ryan McDonald stood in front of him, thick arms crossed over an even thicker chest. This was unusual for a Seeker, but Draco felt no need to contemplate this further. The look of smug satisfaction painted on the bastard's face brought about the familiar rise of anger in his chest, and he snatched his wand out of his pocket. 

McDonald grinned at him; Draco's wand hand trembled. "Going to curse me, Malfoy?" he said, mockingly. "Daddy won't be pleased."

"On the contrary," snarled Draco, "He's been looking for an excuse to fire you for _years_."

"Is that so?" He smirked. "I bet you're as incompetent as Harry Potter at duelling. I heard you were too scared to turn up to the duel you challenged him to a few years ago."

Draco's reaction was instinctive and immediate. 

"Fuck you, McDonald."

He realigned his shaking wand. "_Corpus Icario Seperatum!_"

Ryan McDonald screamed.

***

Lucius was angry. Very angry. 

Narcissa could tell from his posture - she had learned to read it well over the years, had grown accustomed to how little it revealed to others and how much it showed her. 

Presently, he was scrutinising the gale-force winds that were tearing past the glass, the rattling reminding Narcissa of ice in a champagne glass. But she knew him well enough to know that Lucius was not appreciative of excellent views, or violent weather displays.

Nor was he appreciative of his son.

__

And quite rightly, too, Narcissa thought. The boy had once again proven his incapability to live up to the Malfoy name. 

Certainly, the curse he had thrown at Ryan McDonald had been a particularly nasty one; the coach had ended up in extreme agony, missing various limbs and facial features. A house elf had been sent to find the missing parts of his anatomy and Draco had been ordered straight to his room to be dealt with later. Lucius was not angry about the curse the boy had used (he had been trying to teach it to Draco for an age), it was the way in which he had used it. So unsubtly. So un-Malfoy-like. 

'Later' had soon approached. The skies had grown darker and the shadows had lengthened. And Lucius was still furious. He hid it well, clamped under bars of diamond, almost unbreakable. Almost.

There was a sharp knock at the door. Lucius' shoulders tensed; the diamond bars creaked. She still could not see his features - they were turned away from her. 

"Come in."

His voice was soft, dangerously so, but the person on the other side of the door seemed to hear it. The heavy, mahogany door opened, emitting Draco. His eyes immediately darted to the flames before him, and then he closed the door and leant against it, hand resting on the bronze handle as if he suspected that he might need a quick escape. 

The mantelpiece across the room caught her eye as the mermaid swam across the arch and settled next to the proud falcon, which blinked and turned its head to one side curiously. A dragon slid into view and opened its mouth; a large ball of jet-coloured fire rippled across the stone surface and bounced off the edges of the mantel, before dissipating into nothing. 

Turning her attention back to the scene at hand, Narcissa noticed that the boy was tense, too. His eyes flitted around the room, settling on Narcissa. He sent her an imploring look, which she countered with a wicked smile. Shadowed eyes darkened and dropped to the wine-coloured carpet. 

Lucius turned from the benighted landscape he had been studying to face his son. He took a step forward, and another, until he was but a few feet in front of him. His hand shot out and seized the boy's chin firmly, forcing him to look his father in the eyes. 

The firelight distorted everything - splashed their silvery hair with champagne, tainted their skin with warmth, melted the cold, grey eyes to pools of molten fire. Edged Draco's glance with uneasiness. They were almost the same height and, in the hesitant light of the fire, they looked so similar - gold-washed hair, impassive, burnished features, eyes the colour of burnt brandy-butter. The rest of the room was barely visible, swathed in flickering shadows thrown by the dancing flames. It had got darker earlier today and there was none of the usual pearl light shimmering through the window. 

But Narcissa always noticed their subtle differences: Lucius' narrowed eyes to Draco's apprehensive and vaguely defensive look, Lucius' broader shoulders and solid structure to Draco's adolescent slenderness. 

Narcissa's observations were cut short when her husband's clear voice sliced through the room, fracturing the quiet. 

"Explain yourself, Draco Malfoy."

Lucius' long fingers were tinged a buttercup-yellow, clamped around Draco's pointed chin in what must have been a painful manner. The boy said nothing, only thinned his mouth into a grim line and glared over his father's shoulder, not quite meeting his eyes. Narcissa felt her smile widen. He was anxious, that was clear. 

"_Explain yourself!_"

Narcissa jumped and so did Draco - the violence of his reaction wrenching his chin out of Lucius' grip. Her husband rarely shouted - he usually conveyed his anger through icy eyes and a poisonous tongue. 

Draco looked up at Lucius with large, alarmed eyes, probably unaware that he was edging backwards, as if putting as much distance as he could between himself and his father's rage. Lucius' hand landed heavily on his son's shoulder and Draco looked down at it. Narcissa noticed with some interest what looked to be scratches gouged into his previously turned away cheek. They glittered in the wavering light like four clean strokes of chrome ink, running from temple to jawbone. 

Knowing it was probably unwise, Narcissa said, "Lucius, heal those cuts before they scar." They were imperfections and she could never stand things that were so obviously marred. 

"Yes," said Lucius, a sudden thoughtfulness fringing his voice. "I am going to have to tell that fool of a coach not to aim so near the eyes next time." He waved a hand and muttered something underneath his breath, and the scratches closed up, skin weaving together, leaving clean, unmarked skin in its wake. "As tempting as it is, I cannot have my only heir blinded, can I?"

"No, Lucius, but perhaps-"

"Father!" Draco's sharp protest splintered Narcissa's train of thought, but her venomous glare did not stop his interruption. "Father, I did the curse! I-"

"Quiet!" barked Lucius. "You will not treat your mother with such disrespect. She has done more for this family recently than you have ever managed." Narcissa felt a peculiar swell of pride in her breast. "Apologise." 

Draco's open mouth twisted into a rancorous scowl, but he knew better than to disobey his father. "Sorry Mother," he muttered, not dropping his malevolent gaze.

Narcissa's pride soon dissipated and she shot him a narrowed scowl of pure, unadulterated malice. _How dare he! That obnoxious, wretched,_ _despicable little-_

"Draco!" Lucius' hand shot out again, this time clenching a fist around his son's collar. The boy's grey eyes widened as his father forced him a stumbling step backwards, further, until he was trapped between the door and Lucius, looking suddenly very small and very young. 

Lucius looked down at Draco in disgust. "_You_, boy, are a disgrace to the Malfoy name. You will never, _ever_ speak to your mother in that tone again. Your temperament has severely deteriorated over the past year. Perhaps that Mudblood-ridden school of yours has influenced you." Lucius' voice lowered to a hiss. "Whatever it is, I expect you to correct your faults over the summer before your mouth gets you into a tremendous amount of trouble. " The hand that was clenching Draco's collar spasmed. "Not the least with me." 

He let go and spun around suddenly; Narcissa could finally see his face. It was enraged. Draco was hidden by Lucius' towering figure.

Her husband's eyes closed suddenly, almost wearily. "Why, Draco?" His voice betrayed nothing of his expression - it was frosty and swept through the room like a gust of bitterly cold air.

Silence reigned for a moment, ruptured only by the rattling planes of glass and the crackling fire. Then Draco spoke, surprisingly clearly. "He _hit_ me."

"And that excuses your actions?" More silence. "You do realise how much you jeopardised with this ridiculous stunt?" Lucius turned back to his son and, from the sound of his voice, he was sneering. "Do you comprehend what could have transpired had you mispronounced the spell? If you had made the slightest error? Would could _still _happen if we cannot find all of Ryan McDonald's anatomy?" 

It seemed that Draco could find little to say. She could only glimpse his figure - a dark-robed shoulder, a flash of honeyed hair. 

"Molly!"

It took Narcissa a moment to realise that Lucius was not, in fact, directing this at Draco, but that he was summoning one of their house-elves. Within seconds, the bumbling elf appeared in the dark room, cowering by Lucius' tropical hardwood desk. In one long-fingered hand the creature held a fawn sack full of - Narcissa squinted through the darkness - was that a _foot_?

Lucius stepped away from Draco and turned to the trembling house-elf. There was a strange light in his dusky eyes - the nearest description Narcissa could find for it was vindictively cruel, but it had an edge to it. Dislike? Disgust? Satisfaction_?_ She couldn't be sure. 

"M-m-master?"

Narcissa scowled down at the…_thing_. It really was disgusting. They had no human servants now - Lucius had sacked them all the moment the Manor had been passed down into his possession. It was too hazardous. Humans had their own will and could not be broken as easily as these simpering elf creatures. The individuals who could be broken only showed Lucius that their will was weak and that they could be just as easily swayed by a Ministry official. Humans could never be trusted. A cook could always be blackmailed or bribed. One leaf of nightshade in a dish and it could wipe out the whole British Malfoy family line. It just was not worth the risk. 

Narcissa knew this and agreed entirely, but… She sneered. They were irritating, simpering and so _ugly_. Molly's Quaffle-sized Flobberworm-coloured eyes took up most of its creased face, skin the colour of mire, a sooty tweed sack as its crude clothing. Truly disgusting. Narcissa barely understood why Lucius had hired this particular elf - it was useless. But Lucius said that it represented all things Weasley. What that despicable family had to do with anything Narcissa was unsure, but he did seem to take particular delight in taking out his anger on this one elf.

"Well?"

Lucius' tone was sharp and the elf stiffened as though struck. Its trembling increased to an impossible rate; a quivering arm pointed to the sack that had been deposited by the foot of his desk. 

"Molly is looking everywhere, Master. It is d-dark and cold and-"

"Yes, yes," snapped Lucius, waving a Galleon-coloured hand impatiently. "Have you collected all of McDonald's body parts?"

"No Master-"

And then, to the great surprise of everyone (and everything) in the room, Lucius' mouth curled into a smile. It was a smile that radiated wickedness, but was nevertheless a smile. Narcissa felt her breath catch slightly as she was reminded, once again, how lucky she was to be married to this man. And it was all down to her that he was back. 

"What is missing?"

The servant seemed confused; it shuffled its leathery feet and twisted its grubby hands together nervously. "M-m-missing, Master?"

Lucius' pernicious expression left his face as suddenly as it had appeared. His lip curled back, revealing a row of perfectly straight, sharp teeth. "Yes, you half-witted creature. Missing; as in lost, absent. What body parts are _missing_?" 

More trembling ensued. It was beginning to hurt Narcissa's eyes. "Molly found l-lots, Master!" the elf squealed, watching Lucius' booted foot with terrified eyes. "M-molly found a leg, head, two feet-" Lucius' foot twitched. "-b-b-but there were fingers missing, Master! Molly could not find three fingers!"

"That's enough!" snapped Lucius. "You may leave." 

The house-elf disappeared without a moment's hesitation, a resounding whip-crack announcing its departure. Lucius, as warped as his features were in the wavering firelight, looked deeply satisfied with himself. Had Narcissa been in her husband's position, she would have sent the elf off to the kitchens to shut its ears in the larder door. It was quite unlike Lucius to miss out on an opportunity to impress his authority on a servant.

"Draco, come here."

Narcissa craned her neck so that she could peer around Lucius' body. Draco's hand drifted off the door handle reluctantly and he took a few, cautious steps towards his father. His eyes rested on Narcissa for a moment and then flicked upwards as Lucius turned to face him. Draco's chin was raised, mouth set in a thin, hard line, as though preparing himself for his father's onslaught.

But none came forth. 

He only said, "You understand the implications of your actions, Draco?" His voice was soft. 

Draco's expression did not change. "Yes, Father."

"And that you could very well have destroyed the Malfoy family's hard-earned reputation?"

"Yes, Father."

"Then you will accept your punishment without complaint, because you know that you have brought it on yourself."

"Yes, Father."

Narcissa dearly wished that she had planted herself on the window-seat. It may have been cold, but she would have got a better view of her husband and the boy. 

Lucius sighed. "You will go out onto the grounds and find McDonald's missing three fingers. This must be done immediately and without the use of a wand."

Narcissa found herself unable to keep quiet. "Lucius!" she exclaimed. "This is servant-work! You cannot have the Malfoy heir doing such things."

"We cannot have the Malfoy heir cursing his elders as he pleases," said Lucius coldly, "but he seems to regard this as little as I regard your opinion."

Narcissa was unperturbed. "Can we not punish him some other way? Block his meals for a couple of days?" She began pulling various punishments out of her mind rather randomly. "Remove his Quidditch privileges?"

"Absolutely not, Narcissa." The finality in his tone halted her arguments instantly and she leaned back into the cushions of the leather armchair, grumbling under her breath. 

__

Bloody Quidditch…don't see what harm a few weeks without that mindless sport would do… A Malfoy. Doing servant chores. Who would have thought it?

Lucius' attention turned back to his son. "You will take the sack and you will remain outside until all three fingers have been located. Give me your wand."

Draco, who looked as though he wanted to say a great many things but didn't dare to, slipped a hand into his cloak pocket and handed over his dark wand. This object had been the cause of many an argument between father and son over the past five years. Every Malfoy, according to Lucius, for generations back had been chosen by the same two types of wands - yew wood and dragon's heartstring or yew and the feather from a thoroughbred winged horse. 

Draco had been selected as unicorn hair. 

As precious as unicorns were, Lucius took this as a sign of inner weakness. It was just so…_feminine_. Her husband had tried to force other wands onto the boy, but none had ever worked quite as well as his unicorn-cored one. Once, Lucius had even taken Draco to the Eastern European wand-maker Gregorovich to test out the wands he produced, but the result was always the same. 

Yew wood and a single unicorn hair, nine-and-a-half inches, quite whippy, exceptional for protection and rune-based spells. 

Now, Lucius took the wand and walked around his desk before sitting in the ornate chair. He opened the heavy desk drawer with his right hand and dropped Draco's wand into its depths. Then, after much rustling, a thick wad of parchments emerged and the drawer was pushed shut. 

Now that Lucius was sitting down, head bent over the parchments, Narcissa could see Draco over her husband's frame. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, staring at his father. 

"Go on then, boy," said Lucius, without looking up from his work. 

Draco continued to stare a little disbelievingly at his father for a second before snatching up the brimming sack and stalking out of the room, slamming the door in his wake. 

Lucius leant back in his chair and flicked through the documents. "The Ministry do not know whom they're dealing with," he murmured. "Illegal substances, indeed…"

Narcissa thought for a moment. "Lucius," she said slowly. "You do realise that you could use a simple Summoning spell?" 

He glanced behind him and shot her a brief smile. "Naturally," he said, "but what would be the fun in that?"

***

Draco scowled. 

__

Bloody McDonald. Bloody Father. Bloody Mother. Bloody house-elf. 

Crunch. 

__

Bloody hell. 

He shifted his foot and squinted down at the small, oblong dark patch that swallowed up the silvery sheen of the gravel path. Gingerly, he reached out a hand and poked the thing. It was fleshy. 

Draco's hand retracted as fast as was humanely possible and he stared at the finger, deeply wishing he was in his bedroom, sleeping. Or getting a certain house-elf in trouble. He bet the famous Harry Potter didn't have to do menial tasks like this. He was probably resting from a tiring day of signing autographs, or something. 

And it was so _cold_. The gale-force winds from earlier that day had completely dropped, leaving the night to smother the little warmth the sun had lent to the air. Darkness touched everything - it veiled the florid flowers, clung to the rose bushes like inky cobwebs, painted the clouds overhead a rolling black. 

Draco's eyes had quickly adjusted to the pitch-black. Not that it mattered - he could find his way about the Manor and its grounds with his eyes shut. He was not entirely sure how he would have coped with the situation had he not had the knowledge that the Manor's wards were impossible to breach. He knew what creatures lived within the boundaries and, furthermore, knew with a certainty that they would never harm him unless instructed to by his father. And his father would never deliberately mortally wound his only heir. 

Therefore, he was safe. 

But the finger still lay before him, waiting.

Oh, how he _hated _McDonald. 

***

Draco was exhausted. He had found the third finger and had immediately summoned a house-elf to take the bulging sack back to his father's study, and then, finally, he was able to collapse back on to the clipped grass, feeling entirely unable to make it back to the Manor.

The lazy warmth of the sun combined with a whole sleepless night was making him feel decidedly drowsy. The white-hot light blazed against his closed eyelids. 

Of course, the feeling of peace did not last. It never did. 

"Draco!"

The familiar screech hung in the still air. Maybe, if he pretended he was asleep…

"Draco! Draco, get in here right now!"

Draco's eyes snapped open and he scowled. The sleep he had been welcoming disappeared as his eyes focussed on the clear cerulean sky across which whipped clouds were lethargically moving. His tired limbs groaned as he levered himself off the ground as gracefully as possible. Narcissa never could abide inelegance. 

The gravel crunched like crushed ice underneath his feet as he followed the arcing path back towards the towering Manor. Once Draco ducked into the cooling shade of the kitchens, Narcissa descended on him like an overgrown vulture. 

"_What_ were you doing?"

Draco scowled. "What do you care?"

Narcissa trembled with anger. Draco was just about to turn away when her clothing belatedly caught his attention. She was wearing a floor-length cloak of a deep, deep violet hue that drifted lightly on the air currents that floated through the open door. Underneath the cloak was a black dress that clung to her curves and dipped into a disturbingly low neckline. Draco averted his eyes to her hair and felt the beginnings of dread seep through his veins as he noted the numerous braids and ribbons twisted into her long, salt-white ringlets. 

Full Malfoy regalia. Bugger. 

"Family portrait, darling," said Narcissa silkily. "I do hope you hadn't forgotten," she added with an annoyingly large amount of satisfaction.

"Shut up," said Draco, succinctly.

How long had his father been talking about the pre-marriage photograph? Draco had had the date drilled into his brain every day since he had been back from Hogwarts. August 20th, nine o' clock. August 20th, nine o' clock. August 20th, nine o' clock. He had thought it impossible to forget. 

But apparently he had managed to forget it, regardless. 

Draco watched as Narcissa's lip curled and he ducked the anticipated blow to his head. 

"Lucius will hear about this."

"Oh yes. Thank you, Mother. I've always been a great admirer of loyalty."

Narcissa shrugged elegantly. "I like to leave that to the pathetic Hufflepuff-types."

He frowned. "I was only out in the sun for a minute. And I had my sleeves pulled down."

"I was talking about your tardiness, you stupid boy." She laughed dryly. "Although I have accepted that _I'm _the only member of this family who seems to care about keeping the traditional Malfoy traits."

Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. Narcissa had harped on about 'traditional Malfoy traits' for as long as he could remember. Apparently, a Malfoy must _never _show any more skin than was absolutely necessary. Tanned skin and silver hair? Certainly not. A Malfoy's skin had to be of the palest pale. Not sallow, but pure white. His father seemed to care little about how much time Draco spent out in the sun, but Narcissa insisted that he wear long, full-length black robes all year round. It wasn't that Draco particularly minded wearing long-sleeved robes in the blazing sun - the Gods only knew what people would say if they caught sight of his blemished skin underneath. One could only keep a concealing charm going for so long. 

"He won't be happy," Narcissa said, "what with your most recent blunder."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "I hate you, you know."

Narcissa smiled beatifically. "Hate you too, darling. Do run along, now." She peered over his shoulder at the oak grandfather clock he knew stood just to the left of him. "I believe you have precisely twenty minutes before the Delacours arrive."

She swept out of the room, cloak billowing behind her in a dramatic manner. Draco wondered briefly if the exit was supposed to make some kind of impression on him, but it merely reminded him of a female Professor Snape. 

But there was no time to waste on wondering - he had to make himself beautiful. On his sprint up to his room he narrowly avoided bumping into his father by darting into the servant's stairwell and up several flights of narrow, dusty stairs that had last been used by human servants a whole generation before. 

Draco's room was big. He had never thought it particularly large until the day he had visited the Zabinis' house. Blaise's room had been little more than a cupboard. In comparison, he supposed he should be appreciative. He wasn't, of course. He wanted a room in the attic, further away from his parents with a _proper _balcony and a larger wardrobe and a bigger bed and more windows and…

He pulled himself short. No use thinking about the unfairness that was his life now - he had to find his Malfoy family robes before the Delacours-

Draco's hand hovered thoughtfully above his clothes rack. _Delacours_? The name hadn't registered through the panic and irritation that had previously filled his head, but now… Wasn't the point of a pre-marital portrait supposed to be that the bride-and-groom-to-be were pride of place? His fingers brushed the soft material of a cloak absently. Perhaps…perhaps the Parkinsons had backed out of the marriage.

But he knew well enough not to try to predict what his father was planning for him - it caused far too many arguments. His faith in Lucius was a blind one and if he was to marry in to the Delacours then so be it. He would follow his father's instruction unquestioningly. Besides, it wasn't as though he had a choice.

He shook his head and pulled out the heavy cloak. 

www.livejournal.com/users/berne


	3. Chapter 2: Rings of Faith

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Title: Blind Faith (02)

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Author name: Berne  
**Author email:** zenithauk@yahoo.co.uk

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Category: Drama   
**Sub Category:** Angst  
**Keywords:** Draco Harry Malfoys Fleur   
**Rating:** R   
**Spoilers: **All books  
**Summary: **Draco Malfoy is in his sixth year and things are taking a turn for the worse. His father's release from Azkaban has brought further, more complex problems and decisions have to be made; ones that he had hoped would fade with time. Herein lies: arranged marriages, the ongoing feud with Harry Potter and the dangers of blind faith. Rated R for battle scenes and adult themes.

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Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
**Author's note: **R rating for adult themes. Keywords change with every chapter. Fleur will _not _have her accent written phonetically because it's hell to write and is just as annoying to read. I expect. The quote is an adaptation of Carol Ann Duffy's poem _Valentine_. Credits go to Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and National Lampoon's Bored of the Rings. 

Thank you to all those who reviewed the prologue and chapter one of Blind Faith. You lot keep me going. My apologies for the wait. 

I suppose I should warn those who want warning that this fic is slash-friendly. It doesn't necessarily mean that the main male characters will pair up together (although they might), but more that there will be m/m or f/f situations or relationships. Naturally, there could also be a Dumbledore/Giant Squid relationship, but this never seems to need a warning, whereas slash does. Unless the squid's male, of course. 

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Blind Faith

__

Chapter 2

Rings of Faith 

Take it

Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding ring,

If you like

Possessive and faithful

As we are,

For as long as we are 

Fleur Delacour ran her pale hands over the folds of her cornflower dress once more, unnecessarily. She was tired, annoyed and impatient. Neither her father or Mr Malfoy appeared to notice her, and she scowled darkly. 

It seemed like an age since she had last been in England when, in truth, it was only a little over a year ago. She knew her language skills had not diminished - she had a tutor, back at home. But being surrounded by the language was almost suffocating, like it had been at that foul Hogwarts place. 

She missed France already.

Her father had announced yesterday that her engagement to George de Moutis had been terminated and that her new suitor was one Draco Malfoy, from England. 

Fleur had been furious when her father told her, and now, walled in by unfamiliar, mahogany-panels and an impossibly high ceiling, she felt no different. She knew the family name, of course, who didn't? She also knew the reputation that it carried and about Mr Malfoy's recent imprisonment in Azkaban, but that did little to unsettle her. It was this Draco she was unhappy about. At least she had _known _her last fiancé; at least they had _spoken_. And then there was Bill. She had been quite taken with him and had worked with him for a full year.

But the date, time and location for the latest wedding had been arranged faster than she could absorb the news. Apparently, Draco was in the same year as Harry Potter, who was two years younger than herself. According to her friend, who had, like many others, taken a particular interest in Harry Potter at the Tri-Wizard Tournament, they were arch rivals. 

Fleur was not sure if this was a good or a bad thing. She had been grateful to the memory of the pre-Third Task Harry Potter. The irritatingly shy little boy who had saved dear Gabrielle from the lake when Fleur had been unable to do so. 

Now there was the post-Tri-Wizard Tournament Harry Potter. The one who was popularly rumoured in France (even though most recent reports had contradicted this) to have killed the handsome Charles Diggory. Or was it Cyril? Cecil? She could never remember. The Harry Potter, who was constructed, in her mind, partly out of rumours and partly out of gossip. The Dark Lord that Hogwarts had foolishly spawned was back, but the news that had filtered into her home country was several weeks out of date and therefore inaccurate. It had been thought that this Voldemort creature (_'flight from death_', her mind automatically translated) had been killed after the Philosopher's Stone incident, but it appeared that this was just wishful thinking. 

Yes, Harry Potter was not in favour in France. There were far too many unsolved mysteries about him. His rescue of Gabrielle left little impression on her now - it had been an act of instinctive bravery. Anyone would have done it. Besides, her sister had been in no real danger. None of them had. 

__

Well, not in the Second Task, anyway. 

She furrowed her brow thoughtfully. Did her father realise how _dangerous _it was marrying her off to an English family? She hoped they wouldn't expect her to live here, especially with a re-born Dark Lord running rampant. Working at weekends over here was completely different. 

Her thoughts had wandered and she reigned them in, concentrating on the point at hand - Draco Malfoy. But she had no memory of the boy. She sighed audibly. 

The two men silhouetted against the bright daylight filtering in from the window behind them turned to face her. Fleur could not see their faces, shadowed as they were, but could imagine the expression on her father's: affectionate exasperation. 

"You are tired, Miss Delacour?" Mr Malfoy's voice coiled around her like black silk and she briefly wondered (_hoped?_) whether his son's tone would be the same. 

"I am sorry for interrupting," she said, almost carelessly, her tongue wrapping around the foreign language with practised ease. 

"No matter. Perhaps you would like to meet Draco?"

Fleur found herself nodding, curiosity immediately winning out over anxiety. "That would be good."

"I would like to speak with him momentarily, then you can meet him in the rose gardens."

Her lip curled slightly at the horrendous cliché of roses and gardens, but she nodded again. 

Mr Malfoy's hair flared briefly as he stepped away from the window and walked behind his enormous, hardwood desk. He snatched up a gaudy gold-coloured quill and scribbled a sizeable paragraph on a seemingly random scrap of parchment. When Mr Malfoy had finished he tapped the sheaf and a sound like a plucked harp reverberated through the room. 

The older man looked up at her through lowered eyelashes. "He shall meet you down there in ten minutes. I apologise for my son's lateness, but Philly would be happy to escort you down there. _Philly!_"

A house-elf appeared in a matter of seconds and Fleur glanced down distastefully at the simpering servant. It disgusted her how much they liked enslavement. How much they relished bowing and scraping to their wizarding Masters. Acting like that, they deserved everything they got.

Mr Malfoy must have said something to Philly, because the elf was at the heavy door, looking patiently over her sack-clad shoulder. Fleur stood from the antique, high-backed chair she had been perched on and flashed Mr Malfoy a polite smile and her father a bland one that she thought quite clearly conveyed her lingering anger towards him. 

"Au revoir, ma petite pois," her father murmured, but Fleur ignored the endearment and followed Philly out of the room. 

***

Draco sat on the edge of the marble fountain. It resembled a multi-tiered wedding cake frosted with rose quartz, sparkling in the morning light. From his position he could see Fleur Delacour flitting around the rose garden like a restless butterfly, silver hair fanning out behind her. He could also see that she retained the Veela beauty that she had flaunted at the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Ornamented and superficial. 

He had deliberately chosen to wait just north of Narcissa's precious gardens so that he could catch a glimpse of the girl he was supposed to marry. He loathed her already. At first he had felt rather apathetic about the whole marriage business, but actually seeing the girl made everything so much more _real_. He now hated that the engagement had been arranged without his input (which would have been negative) and without his acknowledgement. 

Briefly, he wondered what his relationship with Pansy would now be like. Would she be angry? Relieved? He suspected the latter. Half of his school years were spent arguing with perfect Potter and his idiot Gryffindors, while the other half was spent at odds with Pansy, usually making a scene in the Slytherin common room. 

Draco's eyes wandered back to his new - he snorted inwardly - _fiancée_ and spotted her sweeping up the gravel path, straight towards him. 

Fleur Delacour. He knew nothing of her; no conversation starters. He prepared himself for long, awkward silences laced with underlying enmity. 

"Draco Malfoy?"

Yes, she was certainly beautiful. Silver sheets of Veela hair, hyacinth eyes that matched her dress… Almost boringly beautiful. He vaguely remembered Weasley being besotted with her. What would he think now, his rival marrying his teen crush? The thought cheered him slightly and he nodded. 

"Fleur Delacour, I presume."

The girl tilted her head. "Of course."

Silence. 

Draco shifted his gaze to the rippling water patterns beside him and let the silence crescendo into an almost unbearable tension. He could easily ask something disgustingly polite. How is your father? Is your mother well? Is the weather better in France? Only he felt an inexplicable grudging attitude towards the flouncy French girl. He flicked his eyes up to her face and scowled at her expression. She seemed completely oblivious that he was trying to make her as uncomfortable as possible. 

"What are you scowling at, Draco Malfoy?" Her accent was prominent, but she seemed to have little difficulty with English. 

"Nothing," he said, and frowned. 

Her eyes narrowed. "I should be the one scowling. I was told only last week that I was to marrying a little English boy."

He felt his scowl deepen. "I'm not a _little boy_."

Fleur ignored this and instead planted herself on the wire bench opposite him, arranging her dress carefully around her. "Your father is out of prison?"

Draco fixed her with a glare and briefly pondered whether the French had any sense of tact. But this was ultimately unsatisfying, as she was too busy smoothing out her dress to notice. 

"It looks like it," he said.

Her eyes meandered up to his. "Do not be so impolite. It is hardly my fault, is it?"

Draco sighed impatiently and pushed away from the fountain. "I'm going inside."

But before he could take a step further Fleur had stood up and stepped in front of him, placing an elegant hand on his chest. Her eyes darkened, pale eyebrows drawn together. He looked down at her in surprise - her tilted head just reached his cheekbone, but she still managed to look superior - a lesson that every well-bred pureblood had learned. 

"This _fiançailles_ is not to my liking either, Draco Malfoy," she hissed, and Draco felt his estimation of her increase fractionally. "_I_, however, have the sense not to act like a spoilt little brat when I do not get what I want."

Draco supposed he should really feel quite angry, or at least righteously indignant at her tirade, but he found himself being a little distracted by the girl's heaving cleavage. He blinked, slid his eyes up to her face. 

"You know," he said, conversationally, "from here I can see right down your-"

He was interrupted by an irked _humph! _that was closely followed by a hissed curse in French. She thumped her fisted hand hard against his chest, spun on her heel and flounced away, up to the Manor. 

Draco smirked and leant back against the fountain. 

__

So much for first-impressions.

***

To give Fleur Delacour some credit, it turned out that she didn't whine to Lucius about their exchange. His father did look a little suspicious, though, but this was understandable considering that Fleur and Draco barely spoke two words to each other throughout the hours spent hand-in-hand at the family portrait. It was the most tedious thing he had ever had to endure, which included Dumbledore's end-of-year speeches. His legs were stiff and he was sure that he was bruised from where Narcissa (who had, typical to his luck, been sitting behind him) had jammed her finger into his ribs every time he had fidgeted. He was positive that the artist needn't have taken that long, really, and knew that his portrait-self would most probably turn out scowling, as it always did. 

The Delacours had left after a drawn-out evening meal during which Lucius and Fleur's father had made the necessary arrangements for the upcoming wedding. The finalised date was sometime in February. 

But Draco felt trapped. More so than when he had been engaged to Pansy Parkinson. He had known Pansy and had hated the fact that he was going to spend the rest of his life sleeping with a pug-faced girl with too-big eyes and wild hair almost as big as Mudblood Granger's. Memories of her were accompanied by fleeting visions of vicious slanging matches across the common room and furious fights that, at least up to third year, were always physical and always painful. 

Now Draco was engaged to Fleur Delacour and it all felt so suddenly real, as if the previous engagement had been deniable because of their youth. Pretty, blonde, feisty, he _would _have been attracted to her as any other sane, heterosexual boy of his age would. But the fact that she was now his _fiancée _shed a new light on things. He saw her as a flouncy, too-feisty French girl with a way about her that made his lip curl.

The apathy Draco had felt earlier was gone. He was now furious with his father for arranging the marriage in the first place, but it was an impotent anger that he could do nothing about. So he took it out on Narcissa, who deserved it anyway. She took every available opportunity to bait Draco, to remind him that he had no choice in the matter.

The rest of the summer holidays were spent with Draco fighting with his mother, being lectured by his father, or sulking in his room. At the insistence of Narcissa, his flying privileges had also been taken away due to his lack of regret about the McDonald incident (who, to Draco's great satisfaction, had been Obliviated and sacked). 

So he was bored and angry and feeling more than a bit rebellious. He couldn't wait for Hogwarts. 

***

Harry Potter contemplated the steel blue sky with a strange sense of déja vu. This was just like the summer before fifth year, the most of which he had spent bored and angry. Angry with Voldemort, angry with his friends, angry with Dumbledore, the Dursleys, and the world in general, really. 

Angry with himself. 

The only difference between the two summers being that this time round the Dursleys ignored him completely. They didn't care what time he came back after his nightly wanderings anymore, they didn't care that they could count the number of meals he had eaten with them on one hand. Of course it was only one week into the summer holidays and Harry really couldn't find the strength in him to deal with the pointed conversations that went on over his head at the meals he did attend. 

"Petunia, dear, do you know whether the boy's planning on running off again like he almost did last year? Let's hope he only succeeds this time…The sooner the better, if you ask me"

Any ridiculous hopes that the events of last summer may have affected his Aunt were swiftly shattered. She had merely made a non-committal noise and commented on her nephew's appalling state of dress. 

Harry had been banned from sending or receiving any post due to the risk of tracing charms being put on the owls. A hot surge of anger ran through him and he violently beheaded a nearby daisy. He bet his friends hadn't even _tried _to contact him. At first he had mentally defended them - Dumbledore had said not to; they were only following orders to keep him, Harry, safe. 

But the more he thought about it the more feeble this excuse became. What about Muggle post? Dumbledore hadn't banned them from using that. They obviously hadn't spent almost every hour of every day during the last week thinking about it as he had. _They _obviously didn't care as much about it as Harry did or else they would have come to the same conclusion. Hermione lived with her Muggle parents - why hadn't she thought of it?

Harry sat up suddenly, feeling the familiar prickling sensation along the back of his neck. Without turning around, he pushed himself up and out of the flattened flowerbed and strode into the house, door slamming behind him. By the time he had reached his room, the Dursleys' irritable grumblings were muffled effectively and he was able to collapse onto his bed in the cool darkness of his room. 

Last year the sensation of someone watching Harry would have made him suspicious, even panicked. Now that he knew who it was following his every footstep it was annoying and made him strangely paranoid. Yes, they were looking out for him, guarding him, keeping him safe, but he didn't _need _it. How many times had he proven to them that he could look after himself? Hadn't he faced Voldemort so many times already? And what about last year's Dementor incident? What good had his guard been then? A small part of his mind told him that he was being ridiculous, but he quickly squashed that fleeting feeling of self-doubt. 

He now felt vaguely silly about the fit he had thrown at the Order's house last summer. Shouting was obviously not the way he could effectively convey his anger to his friends. Besides, he didn't feel he had the energy to do that. Why bother? They obviously weren't bothering with him. 

Apathy. To just not care. 

He expected that he could master the art of indifference by the end of the summer; he had five whole weeks in which to practice. A half-remembered phrase drifted through his head, something that he had read somewhere, or perhaps Hermione had told him - he never had been one for literature. 

__

"The worse sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them." 

Harry smiled and closed his eyes.

__

Yes. That will do. 

***

It was a week before September the first and Harry was still lying on his bed in the darkness of his bedroom. Moonlight shadows slid across the ceiling as cars passed by, the reflections penetrating the gap in the curtains and painting the ceiling with a silvery sheen. 

The indifference that he had enforced upon himself over the past month had been fairly effective. It was like a quilt, blanketing him against the stark anger - no, _fury _- he had been feeling. The anger had been too fierce, like an overly enthusiastic _Incendio_. It had burned inside of him, but faded quickly, as though the energy source had been smothered. 

It was comforting and calming, but had failed to make his thoughts any more coherent. He could feel them sometimes, jumbled inside his head, straining at the edges of his consciousness. It was too much - even he, the great Harry Potter, couldn't cope with so many confusing, conflicting feelings, some that often went against everything he had learned in the last five years, everything he had learned to rely on. 

Harry twisted the Hogwarts letter in his hand nervously and knew that, however much he wanted to deny it, the indifference wouldn't last. It would go the same way it always did - he would meet his friends, shout, rant, they would make him feel stupid, even guilty, they would all kiss and make up (figuratively speaking, of course). 

So predictable. 

The sharp point of _something _that shot through him at that thought was almost physically painful, almost as bad as the prickling worry of self-doubt he had experienced while reading the Hogwarts letter. 

This, among other things, proved that his apathetic phase was just that - a phase. It wouldn't last when he got back into the wizarding world. He'd have real life to deal with - Voldemort, Dumbledore, the Order of the Phoenix, Snape, Malfoy… These were things he doubted he could deal with the guise of nonchalance. Sirius--

Harry clamped down on the thought before it could develop. 

Someone from the Order would be coming soon to take him to Diagon Alley. He wouldn't get angry and he wouldn't shout. They'd be worried, he knew -- he'd confined himself to the house for a whole month and felt a strange kind of satisfaction at the concern he was probably causing. Oh, it wasn't for the attention; he knew that with a certainty. It was a dull kind of satisfaction that he wasn't exactly sure what the source was. 

He shrugged to himself and glanced at the pools of ghostly light above him. They would probably collect him tomorrow or the next day. 

But no one came. 

Harry had waited. Waited and waited and waited until he could no longer completely hide the anger and bitterness, the _hurt _he was feeling. They had _left _him and now he had no books, no quills, no parchment, no ink, no potion ingredients. He had completed every piece of homework he had been set except, of course, Snape's. He had left it until last in the hope of some last-minute divine inspiration, but none had come and he had run out of parchment by that time, anyway.

He felt slightly rebellious, even though it wasn't his fault. This, like the worry he had been sure he was causing, was satisfying. Snape was a bastard, anyway. Why should he do the homework of a Death Eater who--

No. He wouldn't think of Sirius. 

He rolled out of bed and strode purposefully out of his room, jogging down the stairs and into the Dursleys' living room. They all looked up in surprise. 

Harry had started eating with his aunt, uncle and cousin regularly again because he had been getting too thin and he didn't need people fussing about him, especially if it was because of something that was entirely his own fault. He hadn't spoken to the Dursleys for a whole month, apart from the odd_, Yes, Uncle Vernon, No, Uncle Vernon, Certainly, Uncle Vernon_, and only then when demanded of him. They had been quite unnerved by his sudden change in behaviour and had provoked him with the usual mocking insults and complaints.

To have him willingly seek their company must have taken them by surprise, because no jibes were immediately forthcoming. 

"Can you take me to King's Cross tomorrow?"

Uncle Vernon blinked; his many chins trembled. "So we can get rid of you at last, can we? Good riddance."

Harry took that as a yes and started up the stairs and into his bedroom to pack. He felt no excitement about going back to Hogwarts, no nervousness, either, just a familiar apathy. 

He closed his eyes briefly and hoped it would last. 

***

Draco was trying to think back to his Magical Literature class of last year. The topic had been Hearts and Partners - drawing comparisons between contemporary and traditional love poems. But what had a wedding ring stood for?

__

Take it

Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding ring,

If you like

Possessive and faithful

As we are,

For as long as we are

Eternity. That was it. Ceaseless, everlasting, infinite. 

But eternity seemed so final; so…_forever_. And forever was such a long time -- he shouldn't be committed to it at the age of sixteen. Plus he had no real sense of responsibility. Like any normal male teenager, right? He wasn't _meant _to be worrying about marriage and Azkaban and Dark Lords; he was _supposed_ to get worked up about girls, Quidditch and NEWTs. 

It was all his father's fault, he decided. Draco would, naturally, send numerous letters to him full of complaints about the situation, but would provide no real threat to the engagement. Just like always. And his father would read the first few letters, send a blunt letter back and refuse to answer anymore of his owls. Just like always. 

He scowled and slipped the ring back onto his finger. It was a surprisingly understated affair -- a platinum band without any mark or engravings, just a tiny maker's seal stamped into the underside. His father had told him to wear it with pride and, for once, to answer any queries truthfully. He wanted there to be a tremendous build up to the wedding, a great anticipation that the papers would not be able to leave alone. 

No one knew about the engagement but the Malfoys, Delacours and Parkinsons. The latter had been sworn -- frightened -- into secrecy, while the French family had no interest in publicity. But the Malfoys thrived on it and Narcissa had started plans already for what she had dubbed _The Wedding of the Year_. 

"Aren't you supposed to be in the Prefect's compartment?"

The voice lashed through his thoughts and he snapped his head up to see who had entered his compartment. Pansy Parkinson was sitting opposite him, next to Blaise, apparently having slipped in without his notice. 

"What about you?" he countered, suddenly realising that she wasn't scowling or shouting or sneering at him. She looked calm and Draco suddenly felt unsure of how to treat the girl. A lot had changed.

Pansy sniffed. "Already been."

There was a silence in which Draco took the time to appraise her. She was small - about Fleur's height - with tanned-dark skin and a wild bob of rich, chestnut curls, held back by two glittering barrettes. Her nose was still…pugged, but while she was by no means stunning, she wasn't that ugly. 

And he felt none of the usual irritation towards her. From the look on her face, she didn't either.

"Do you reckon this is because of the wedding was called off?" Draco asked, bluntly. 

An ironic smile lit her glossed lips. "Well, I'm not feeling the usual urge to throttle you, so I suppose it must be. You're not nearly as bad when you're engaged to someone else."

"Oh, I don't know," said Blaise, from behind his text book. "I think he's still a prat."

"Of course he's a prat," grinned Pansy. "Otherwise I'd assume he was ill."

"Never assume, Pansy," said Blaise gravely. "It makes an ass out of you and me." 

Blaise was random. He spoke as if he had plucked his words from a novel, not apparently caring whether they had any relevance to the conversation. There was something very odd about him. Perhaps it was that his eyes didn't seem to blink often enough and when you talked to him for any length of time your eyes began to involuntarily water on his behalf. Maybe it was the way he smiled slightly to broadly and gave people the unnerving impression he was about to go for their neck. Draco doubted that he was completely sane, but that didn't matter because he was surprisingly intelligent and very useful for scaring younger years into submission. 

But this new side of Draco's relationship with Pansy was going to be something to get used to. He would have felt suspicious at the sudden change in her character had he not felt the same reluctance to encourage their fighting.

Pansy looked over at him and held out a delicate hand. "Truce?"

Draco looked at her. The smile on her face faltered slightly. He grinned and enclosed her hand in his, squeezing slightly, and then used it to pull her towards him. "You'll _never_ guess what happened this summer with McDonald…"

***

Harry sat and watched the countryside roll by. If he had wanted to be polite he would have been listening to Ginny, Colin and Dennis Creevey's conversation. But he didn't want to be polite. He was angry and more than slightly miffed that no one was asking him how he was. Ginny had barely greeted him before launching into a chat with the brothers. The two younger boys were sitting thigh-to-thigh, despite the excess room in the compartment. 

He sighed irritably and Ginny looked up. She smiled. "Still sulking, Harry?" There was a slight note of exasperation in her voice that he didn't like. 

"I'm not _sulking_," he said, through gritted teeth. 

"Of course not," she said sweetly, and turned back to her conversation. 

Harry stared. She didn't even _ask_ about him. He was right -- no one did care. He stood up abruptly and strode out the compartment, making sure to slam the sliding glass door hard. 

It was two hours into the train journey and there had been nothing. No visit from Ron and Hermione. No letter from an Order member apologising. And an annoyingly familiar voice was floating down the corridor. 

"And McDonald -- the bastard -- you know what he did?" There was a dramatic pause before the voice continued, with relish: "He _exploded_." A horrified gasp. "I know -- it was _brilliant_. There were pieces of him all over mother's rose gardens. She was furious, you know, because all her flowers died afterwards. She had to spend all afternoon yelling at the gardener so that they could be replanted for the Delacours. Broke my broom, but Father--" Harry felt his stomach do a nauseating flip "--bought me a new one, so I can still beat Potter. Anyway, it was worth it to see McDonald spontaneously combust. You should have seen it…"

But Harry only half-heard all of this. The nausea he had felt hadn't passed and his mind struggled desperately with this new piece of information. So Lucius had bought Draco a new broom. But… But surely he couldn't have done that from Azkaban? Had Voldemort broken his Death Eaters out? His anger at Ron and Hermione had faded now and was replaced with something he was less comfortable with. 

Fear. 

And a little bit of shame. Here he was feeling sorry for himself when he didn't have a clue what had been going on in the wizarding world. Had there been murders? Surely, if things had got _really _bad, Ginny, Colin and Dennis wouldn't have been giggling over such inconsequential things as Best-Looking Bachelor articles in _Witch Weekly._ Right?

He had to know. 

Harry slammed into the compartment with so much force that Malfoy actually stopped talking. 

"How'd your dad worm his way out of prison, Malfoy? Blackmail? Threats? Voldemort?" He pulled short his barrage of accusations at the communal flinch. He would have mocked them in any other circumstance, but right now it only made him embarrassingly aware that there were other people in the compartment. Namely Crabbe and Goyle (looking as big as ever), Pansy Parkinson (looking as disdainful as ever) and a dark-haired boy who announced, unnecessarily, "It's Potter."

"Well done, Blaise," drawled Malfoy, yawning. "Well done."

The boy hadn't changed much. Silver-blond hair catching the late summer sun was grown a little longer so that it curled very slightly around his collar, as though the tips had been exposed to a naked flame. The narrowed grey eyes were the same, though, as was the winter-pale skin and scowling mouth. 

"Did you come in here for a _reason_, Potter? Because not everyone, you know, appreciates the presence of the Boy Who Lived as much as his fan club does. It might also help if you could form a coherent sentence. As my father says: words weren't made for tripping over themselves."

"Your dad's out of Azkaban."

"Gold star, Potter." He smiled delightedly. "My father is an innocent man due to, ah, susceptibility to the Imperius Curse."

"That's a lie, Malfoy, and you know it. Your _father _doesn't need any curse to make him lick the shoes of a monster. He does it willingly. Quite the blow to your Malfoy pride, eh?" 

"Shut up." Draco's cheekbones flushed red and he stood up--

Harry spluttered in an attempt to hide a laugh. He felt a grin spread across his face and completely forgot about the impending duel. He laughed again, more openly, for the first time in months. 

"Let's just hope you have a growth spurt before our duel," he said. " I'd hate to have an unfair advantage against you." Draco made a furious choking noise and started forward, only to have Pansy catch at his cuff, hissing something. Harry grinned again. "That's it, Malfoy, let your girlfriend fight your fights -- she could lend you a pair of heels if you're _really _lucky." 

Draco snatched his hand sleeve out of Pansy's grip. Oh, Harry hadn't felt this good for weeks. He opened his mouth to deliver another barb, but was interrupted by a voice. 

"Harry Potter?" Blaise's petrol-blue eyes were peering almost shyly over the top of his book. "Can I--" he began breathlessly, "I mean, could I possibly have your autograph?"

Harry goggled, open-mouthed, at the boy. "Pardon?"

Blaise ran his tongue slowly along his lower lip. "Would you--"

"Ugh!" Harry made an incoherent noise and then spluttered something that he hoped was derogative and almost ran out of he compartment. 

***

"Did you see his _face_?" Pansy screeched, holding onto the luggage rack for support. Her small frame was wracked with giggles and she clamped a hand over her mouth in an attempt to subdue them. 

Blaise smiled, but said nothing. Draco bit on his lip in a vain attempt to smother an infectious grin and slumped back into his seat. "Do _you_ think I'm short?" 

Pansy looked up and tried to work her mouth into something that was appropriately solemn. "You're taller than me." 

"Pansy, you're _tiny_."

The corner of her mouth twitched upwards. "Actually, I prefer _petite_."

"_Pansy_," he said, trying not to wail distressingly. "I _am _short, aren't I?"

"Maybe Potter just had a growth spurt over the summer," she said, not bothering to hide her smile now. "He used to look like a runt."

"_Used _to, Pansy, _used_ to. He's got the advantage now. He'll _never _let this go. What do I do?"

"Well," she said, examining her manicured nails, "you're welcome to my stilettos." 

Draco wailed, scandalised. "_Pansy!_"

*** 

Harry stumbled blindly into the next carriage and peered breathlessly into the nearest compartment which, by some miracle, was occupied by Ron and Hermione. He almost fell over in his rush to open the door and threw himself down unceremoniously on the seat. 

"Who's Blaise?"

The two of them blinked and glanced at each other. "Never heard of her, mate," said Ron slowly. 

"It's a him."

"Oh." Hermione fiddled self-consciously with the end of her braid, which had come slightly loose. "Why do you need to know?"

"He just--" Harry squinted at them. "Look, are you alright? You both look a bit flustered."

And they did. Ron's shirt was half-unbuttoned and Harry could see the flushed skin of his neck and chest. His hair was rumpled and Hermione looked uncharacteristically dishevelled. Ron coughed into the awkward silence and something in Harry's mind clicked. "Oh." His face heated. "_Oh_. " He coughed. "Right. I'll just go now."

"_No!_" protested Hermione forcefully. "Tell us how you've been. We've been worried about you, Harry."

Ron didn't say anything, but nodded slightly too fervently. 

"No, I'll just…I'll just go," Harry said, sounding remarkably like Neville, and hurried out of the carriage. 

Ron and Hermione. Hermione and Ron. _Together_. Okay, so he had expected something to happen after fourth-year, but then nothing had. Just the usual bickering. And now they were snogging and doing who-knew-what-else all over the Hogwarts' train. No wonder it had been deserted. He felt his face heat up again. Oh God. How embarrassing.

But there was still that treacherous little voice pushing its way to the front of his mind: _So that's why they didn't have time to write._

Without thinking, he made his way back to Ginny and the Creevey brothers' compartment.

Ginny looked up and smiled sympathetically. "Did you find them?"

Harry glared at her. "Thanks for the warning."

She shrugged. "I thought maybe a short, sharp shock would snap you out of your moping."

He tried to summon up another glare, but found that it was too much effort. He sat down. He _had _been feeling furious at everything and everyone, but it was so…_tiring_ to be that angry all the time. It could wait until he spoke to Ron and Hermione properly. Sod indifference. 

"Who's Blaise?"

Ginny looked at him curiously. "Blaise Zabini? Why do you want to know?"

Harry blushed, and then wished he hadn't. "Heaskedmeforanautograph," he mumbled, as though the quicker he said it the less painful it would be. 

Ginny, irritatingly, laughed. "He's a Slytherin in your year. I used to be terrified of him -- he's mad."

"Mad?"

"Completely off his head."

"Like Luna Lovegood?"

"Much worse." She sighed. "Luna's just…eccentric. She gets teased like mad about it, but no one teases Blaise."

"Why not? I thought you said you weren't terrified of him anymore?"

"Did I?" Ginny scrunched her nose up. "Well he's not _terrifying_, just…" She looked out of the window. "I don't know. Mad."

"Why does Dumbledore let him stay, then?"

She shrugged. "How do I know?"

"He didn't seem that bad to me. Just one of Malfoy's smaller cronies." He grinned suddenly. "Talking of which, have you _seen _Malfoy?"

***

Pansy looked around the Great Hall. She was wedged between Crabbe and Goyle, who Draco had instructed her to look after. He had decided to go to his dormitory, claiming loudly that he didn't want to put up with any more fixed Sorting songs or sentimental drivel from Dumbledore. She guessed that he wanted to sulk without anyone to interrupt him.

She sighed and stole a napkin from Blaise. "It's rude to steal, Pansy," he said, not looking up from his apple. He had spent the majority of the meal carving runes into the skin with a butter knife.

"I like to call it borrowing without permission."

Blaise didn't answer, but looked up to watch her wrap up some scones. "For dear Draco?" 

"He's sulking."

A smirk. "Give him this." 

Pansy took the offered apple without question and tucked it into her robe pocket, along with the bulging napkin. She waved distractedly to Blaise, hopped neatly over the bench and made her way out of the Hall. 

Down the web of shifting corridors that made up the dungeons: invitingly cool stone that Pansy liked to trail her hand along the smooth surface of. The candles added little warmth, but she hated to be overheated and was nicely acclimatised to the temperature. She stopped after a little while and whispered the password at a blank length of wall. It slid back soundlessly and she slipped into the common room, smiling at the almost homely familiarity. The boy's dorm was down a short flight of stairs and she knocked sharply against the solid door. 

There was a mumbled curse. Pansy rolled her eyes. "Open up, Draco."

"Fuck off, Pansy."

She pushed the door open with a bit of effort and squinted into the room. She very rarely ventured in there because the few times she had set foot in the dorm, she had been irredeemably scarred by the pure messiness. Draco had frightened the elves into not coming into his (and the rest of the sixth-year boys') room and the result was evident. He had been there for only an hour or two and already there were clothes flung everywhere, a trunk was upturned, bedcovers wrinkled… 

"Draco?" A movement from the canopy of his bed caught her attention and she squinted up into the darkness. "Draco? Can't you at least light a candle? I can't see a thing."

A muffled "No I bloody can't" silenced that plea. 

Pansy huffed. "Fine." She took her wand out of her pocket. "_Lumos_."

The light was paltry, but it was enough to highlight the pair of eyes glaring at her over the top of Draco's bed. "Wench," he sniffed. 

"I brought you scones." 

The canopy creaked slightly and Draco said in a hopeful sort of tone, "Really?"

She smiled. "Really."

Draco had always, right from his first year, used the canopy of his four-poster as a bed. He said that the velvet drapes were far more comfortable than his lumpy mattress. The only telltale sign that he was up there was the sagging ceiling of the material when he was lying on it. There was always a mound of quilts that touched the ceiling. The one time she had seen him sleep in an actual bed was the summer after fourth-year when… 

She cleared her throat and held her wand high. "Why can't you keep this tidy for just one night?"

Draco pushed at the covers piled around him and swung his legs over the edge of the canopy. He grinned at her -- a flash of whiteness in the dark. "It makes me feel deliciously rebellious." He slid off and landed neatly on his feet, falling back onto the bare mattress. "Makes a change from just feeling delicious."

She sat down beside him and was surprised to find his bed decidedly unlumpy and actually very, very comfortable. What a curious boy. 

"Where are the scones?" 

Pansy set her wand down on the bed and it rolled, shifting the light onto Draco. He looked almost luminescent against the darkness -gold leaf skin, glowing saffron eyes, hair like the threads of a tapestry that Galleons couldn't buy. Something tugged inside her and she closed her eyes. Not again. She thought she had grown out of this.

"Pansy!" The voice was bordering on a whine. "Do you _want _me to starve to death?" 

She opened her eyes, her heart in her throat. Draco had her wand in his hand and appeared to be searching her for food. She dug into her robe pocket and fished out the napkin and carved apple.

Surprisingly, Draco went straight for the apple and held it up to the wand light. It had an unnatural glow to it. "Blaise?" he asked, examining the symbols. 

"He told me to give it to you. What are they?" 

"Protection runes," he said, reaching past Pansy and placing the apple on his bedside table with exaggerated care. Pansy inhaled discreetly as he leant over her. Lemon and pepper. "Everyone knows that."

"Clearly not everyone," she said dryly, as he settled back onto the bed. 

And, to her horror, she found it an effort to keep her tone steady. Oh, God, why was she getting all emotional now? It wasn't fair. She'd just finished her period and was sure that tearful mood swings weren't usual _afterwards_. 

The scones were the next victims of his examination. "Pansy?"

She swallowed. "What?" 

He poked at the scone with her wand, making it give off a warning spark. "Are these," he asked suspiciously, "_raisins_?" 

"Maybe," she said, with some misgiving. 

"Are you trying to poison me?" he moaned, letting go of the scone as though he had been burned. "_Raisins_?"

"I thought it was sultanas you hated," said Pansy thickly. Oh, God, she was going to cry. She could feel it coming and she didn't have a clue why. 

Draco glared at her. "Wench." 

She attempted a sweet smile. "I think you're running out of insults, darling." Obviously deciding to ignore her, he picked up the scone again and set to work picking out the raisins. 

"Raisins are so plebeian," he said, without looking up. 

Pansy raised a hand to swipe at her eyes, but a spark of light captured her attention and refused to let it go. She dropped her hand and, to her horror, found her throat thickening even further. She blinked a few times, hating that her belated reaction to the broken engagement was to start feeling the beginnings of a fit of hysterics. Draco was oblivious, still fussing over his scone. 

"Draco," she choked out, "you have a _ring_."

He looked up quizzically. "A ring?"

"A _wedding _ring."

"It's an engagement ring, actually." He scowled. "And like I fucking want it." 

Pansy felt her lip tremble violently. Why was she feeling so bloody emotional? "_We _never had a ring."

Draco shrugged. "Does it really matter?" 

She made a sound that was caught somewhere between a sob and a sigh. "Of course it matters -- I loved you."

Now where had _that _come from?

***

Draco dropped his scone. He was sure there were things that people did at times like this, but no one had ever told _him_ how to cope with a girl confessing her love for him. Where had this come from, anyway? One moment he was innocently lamenting about his scones and the next Pansy was sobbing into her hands. He didn't _understand_. 

And she loved him?

"You love me?" he asked, staring at her. 

"_Loved_ you," she corrected, with a tearful sort of grimace. "I guess I hid it well." 

"Yes," said Draco, remembering a particularly bloody tooth-and-nail fight of their first year. "I guess you did." The light of the wand in his hand turned her tear tracks into glistening trails of melted gold. "Pansy, stop crying," he snapped, wondering if he really should be snapping at a hysterical girl. 

The sobs got louder and he guessed that maybe snapping wasn't the best answer. "Pansy, stop it," he said desperately. "Please stop it. I don't know what to do! What have I done?"

Pansy suddenly started gulping in great lungfuls of air and Draco felt panic fully settle in. "Pansy, _don't_." 

"I--cant--help--it!" she gasped, and slumped backwards onto the bed.

Draco raised himself onto his knees and leaned over her. "Breathe, you idiot! Breathe!" He grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard. "Please breathe!"

Gradually her breathing evened out and Draco let go and rocked back onto his heels. She glared at him from beneath tear-beaded eyelashes. "You're such an idiot, Draco."

"Me? I'm not the one who got all hysterical!"

She propped herself up on her elbows, breathing deeply. "No?"

He stared at her. What the hell was going on? She was fine, she was crying, she was dying, and then she was fine again. And now a headache was setting in and he didn't know what to do. Mood swings, maybe? He had enough of them to understand, but _he _didn't burst into tears and dish out confessions of love every which way. 

"What happened?" he asked, feeling horribly out of his depth.

Pansy looked at him, wide-eyed, snatched up her wand and propelled herself off his bed with an alarming speed, shooting out of the room and leaving Draco blinking into the darkness. 

***

Harry sat on his bed and stared at his two friends. "I don't _care _about you being together," he interrupted. "In fact, I'm surprised in didn't happen sooner."

Hermione pulled herself short and her mouth dropped open rather unattractively. "You _knew_?"

Harry slumped back onto his bed and stared at the canopy, willing himself to be patient. "Everyone knows, Hermione, right back since fourth-year."

Ron looked as though he had finally worked something out in his head. "So _that's_ why the other Prefects gave up the compartment so quickly!"

"Are you sure, Harry?" asked Hermione, more dubiously. 

He sat up so quickly that the blood rushed to his head and he had to wait a moment for the dizziness to pass before he spoke. "For someone so bright you can be really, really oblivious sometimes."

"So…" she said, with trepidation, "what are you angry about?"

"Argh!" 

They were _impossible_. Even after last year they didn't get it. They didn't get him. 

"Is this about the same thing as last year, then?" asked Hermione quickly.

"You're my friends!" Harry realised how close he was coming to shouting and forced his voice into a low hiss. "You're supposed to _know _what the matter is!"

"Harry, mate," said Ron, looking alarmed, "how're we meant to know what you're upset about? We're not bloody mind-readers."

Hermione nodded earnestly, still staring at him with wide, biscuit-brown eyes. Harry stared straight back. 

They had been trying to talk to him for the last ten minutes without much success. And Harry was fed up with it. He was angry with them for ignoring him the whole summer. This, though, was accompanied with a healthy portion of guilt that kept him from venting his feelings in his usual manner. Shouting wouldn't help. Not this time. 

"Harry, talk to us," Hermione pleaded, reaching out a hand, but stopping just before it reached him, as though unable to break the wrathful barrier he had erected.

Not looking at her, Harry said in low tones: "Fine then. This is exactly the same as last summer. Except last time -- last time--" He almost choked on the words that he had been avoiding for the last couple of months. Taking a deep breath, he carried on. "Last time I knew I had Sirius to come back to. I _knew_ that he'd be cleared, eventually, and that we'd--" He swallowed and willed the burning sensation at the backs of his eyes away. Before they could offer him condolences that would only hurt more, he ploughed onwards. "I had no owls, no letters, no contact. No one took me to Diagon Alley and--" 

"Did you get your books?"

He glared at Hermione. "I didn't." She looked stricken. "They turned up in my dorm, courtesy of Dumbledore, I expect. But that's not the point--"

"Then what is your point?" asked Ron waspishly. 

Harry was taken aback. Ron wasn't meant to endanger the arguments he had structured during the holidays with a question that the self-doubting part of his own mind had been asking; with a question that he found himself, now, unable to answer. He had a point, but everything had suddenly become so complicated in his mind. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. 

"You look like Sirius when you do that," said Hermione softly. 

Something inside Harry collapsed at that and he suddenly felt very, very tired again and not at all incensed enough to continue with the argument. 

"_Don't_," he said, somewhat pathetically. 

Someone sighed and Harry looked up. He hadn't properly looked at them both for months. He could now see the smudges under their eyes, the exhausted gazes, the rumpled hair. He almost laughed at himself when he said, "You both look awful."

It went against everything he had prepared himself for. He hadn't been prepared for the weariness that he now felt; he had only been expecting a cold indifference melting into a red-hot anger. He wasn't prepared for it and he wasn't sure that he could cope with it.

Hermione managed a watery smile. "Thanks, Harry."

"I mean--"

"We know what you mean," said Ron, and maybe he did. "We're just tired."

"And frightened," said Hermione, leaning a little into Ron, who did not deny her addition. 

Harry's stomach did another sickening lurch. "Has anything happened? I know Lucius Malfoy's out of Azkaban, but--"

"Nothing's happened," said Ron. He scowled. "The Death Eaters were broken out, but everyone expected that. Didn't mean the Ministry could do anything, though. There's been a few random murders--"

"Ron," Hermione admonished, "we don't know that. The Ministry's still investigating."

He snorted. "Fat lot of good that will do. Hopefully Fudge'll be the next one."

"Ron, you can't say things like that."

"I can say what I like."

They looked older, even while bickering, but Harry felt…younger, if anything. He wasn't coping, he was just pushing it all to the back of his mind and hoping it would go away, which was probably not the best option. They had had time to accept the news over the holidays, but Harry hadn't and it was all too much. 

"So nothing _serious_ has happened," he asked, feeling a warm rush of relief. 

"No," shrugged Ron. "Nothing serious."

***

Draco looked up when Blaise swept in the room and watched him glide up to his own bed. He gave the apple in his hand one last cursory glance and called out. 

"Blaise?"

The other boy looked up. "Draco." He glanced around thoughtfully. "Let there be light," he said, and clicked his fingers. The oil lamps dotted around the room flared with silver flames and Draco felt his throat go instantly dry. "And there was light." 

Draco slipped his wand out of his pocket and whispered, "Nox." The lamps' light was smothered simultaneously, each emitting a protest of glittering smoke. 

"_Draco_," Blaise whined. "You _always_ do that."

"I don't think Snape would be very happy if I smashed them all." 

Blaise didn't seem to hear this, but continued in a more hopeful tone. "Is there a reason you want the lights off?"

Blinking at the -- dare he say it -- _sultry_ look Blaise shot at him from beneath lowered eyelashes, Draco remembered something Pansy had teased him about last year. _I reckon Blaise has a crush on you_, she had said. He had scoffed at the time, of course, but now…

He flicked his wand. "_Lumos solarium_." 

The whole room lit up as bright as day, despite the lack of light source. Draco ducked his head under the covers to avoid being blinded and was quite alarmed to hear the bedsprings several feet below him creak. The canopy shook for a moment and then a warm, solid body was pressed against his side. 

"Blaise, what are you doing on my bed?"

There was no response. Huffing impatiently, Draco pushed his covers away and found himself nose-to-nose with Blaise. He scrambled backwards with a strangled yell, making the canopy groan ominously. 

"Look, I'm not sure this canopy will take both of us."

"Well stop fidgeting, then," said Blaise, matter-of-factly. "You wanted to ask me something."

"I did?" Draco glanced at the apple that was now sitting placidly in the palm of Blaise's hand. He frowned. "These runes aren't for protection. They look like them, but--"

"Did I say they were for protection?"

"No, but -- oomph!"

In one swift movement Blaise was kneeling over Draco, having pushed him firmly backwards. The crushed velvet was soft against the back of his neck, but it wasn't comfortable and Blaise certainly had no right to be _looking_ at him like that. Pansy's words flashed through his mind again. He began to struggle up, but the other boy's insistent hands on his shoulders prevented him from managing anything more than a somewhat pitiable squirm.

"Get the fuck off me, Zabini!" Draco ordered, not quite being able to ignore the small bolt of fear that shot up his spine and tensed his muscles.

"Only if you kiss me," he said, and leant down so that his lips were less than an inch from Draco's. 

__

Pansy was right, whispered an unhelpful (and mildly hysterical) voice at the back of his mind. He turned his head to the side and pushed vainly at Blaise again. The unhelpful voice in his head was back again. _Now if you were _taller_…_

Draco growled. "I'm not going to kiss you, you prat. If you get off me now we can pretend this never happened."

"But I don't _want_ to pretend this never happened--"

"Crabbe and Goyle will be back soon," he interrupted, rather more desperately than he would have liked. "They'll beat you to a pulp and, Zabini, _your hand is wandering_."

Blaise smiled at him serenely. "Sorry." A frown creased his brow. "Don't you feel any…different?"

"A bit more squashed than usual," said Draco acidly, having given up struggling. "But that could be because I have a useless, molesting lump on me."

He was rewarded with another obscure smile. "I haven't molested you yet."

"Your hand was running up at my thigh and I think -- what do you mean _yet_?"

"If you just _kissed_ me…"

Draco changed tact. "Wouldn't you rather I do it of my own free will?" 

"Like that'll ever happen." He wrinkled his nose. "You sound like an idiot Gryffindor. Just kiss me and I'll go away."

"I doubt it."

Blaise leaned in closer and Draco felt something warm and wet trail down his cheek. He flinched away from it, trying to wipe the saliva off onto his shoulder, fuming. 

"That's disgusting! You just _licked_ me. Ugh! Get the fuck off me right now, you bastard!"

"Only if you kiss me," Blaise repeated calmly. "With tongues," he added, almost as an afterthought. 

The longer it went on the worse it seemed to get. If Draco had just agreed to this bloody kiss and got it over and done with tongues might not have had to be involved. There would have been no licking or groping or -- he dreaded what could come next. 

"I'll kiss you," said Draco, scowling, "only if you tell me what you did with that apple. _And_ let me go."

"Fine."

"And teach me the spell."

A longer pause. "I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"Yes, then."

Feeling as though he were being led to the scaffold, Draco closed his eyes and pressed his lips against Blaise's. 

***

***

***

The implied Creeveycest is dedicated to Ociwen, who complained there wasn't enough of it in the fandom. 

The scones are dedicated to Ginzai. 

Loads of love to Ociwen and Thalia for betaing -- you two are fantastic. 

Feel free to visit my Livejournal at: www.livejournal.com/users/berne 


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